


Right Through Me

by brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Neglect, F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some angst, Teacher-Parent Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 68,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's a vet who got home a few months ago, and is struggling to adapt to civilian life. Living with his ex and her new husband is hard enough, but the real test is when he's expected to take on the role of father. Starting with parent/teacher night.</p><p>Steve's an art teacher who loves his job. Granted, it hadn't been exactly what he'd had in mind for his art degree, but he's found that he likes seeing that look in a kid's eye when they realise that they're capable of creating something beautiful. So the kids are easy. It's just when he has to deal with the parents that things get messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, look at me being all ambitious and stuff, posting a multichap AU. I'm not nervous at all (that's a lie, I'm very nervous). Any comments would be hugely appreciated.

The first thing Bucky notices is that it feels like his mouth is stuffed with cotton wool. The next is that his bed’s a lot harder than he remembers it being. For the first time, he’s actually comfortable.

Except for one thing.

“Move,” Natasha says loudly. 

_ Way too fucking loudly _ , Bucky thinks as his head throbs. His ex-girlfriend adds insult to injury by nudging him in the ribs with a no doubt very expensive shoe.

It takes too much effort to release the groan that’s building up in his throat. Cautiously, Bucky opens his eyes a crack. 

First thing he sees is a pair of black high heels, that lead up to a pair of shapely legs. Even with the state he’s in, he can’t help but appreciate the sight. 

“Stop trying to stare up my skirt, and get your ass up.” Natasha prods him with one of those godforsaken shoes again to emphasise her point. 

A pained groan escapes him. Bucky has to admit, if only to himself, that it’s a pretty pathetic sound, one that manages to convey the true agony of the hangover that’s currently thundering through his head.

Only, Natasha is apparently devoid of any human compassion. She crouches down carefully, and her well manicured fingers grip him by the hair. As his head’s lifted off what turns out to be carpet, Bucky realises he must have passed out right there on the living room floor.

There’s a small damp patch where his mouth had been.

“You know, James, there are a lot of things I’m willing to forgive,” Natasha begins in a pleasant tone. “The long hair, the late nights drinking, breaking my heart.” The last is added as an afterthought. “But what doesn’t work for me is you drooling onto my twenty thousand dollar Persian rug.”

“Nice to know where your priorities are,” Bucky manages to rasp. 

Wrong thing to say. Natasha releases her hold on his hair, allowing his head to thunk onto said Persian rug. 

“My priorities are our children,” Natasha says coldly. “And I’d rather them not see daddy passed out drunk on the floor. Get up.” Her words bring on a rush of shame that just adds to his headache. Bucky presses his face to the carpet in a futile attempt to escape the feeling.

It doesn’t work.

The clacking of heels indicates that Natasha’s said her piece, and now it’s up to Bucky to actually move.

He really needs to stop drinking.

Forcing himself to his feet, it takes more concentration than he’s comfortable with to stay on his feet. He takes a moment to steady himself before attempting to walk. The way he was feeling, he’d likely fall over, and crack his skull right open.

_ That might make Natasha happy _ , he muses to himself.  _ She can just roll me up in her fancy rug and not have to deal with me anymore. _

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his throat that has nothing to do with the hangover.

But he doesn’t have too long to mope. 

“Okay, kids, time for breakfast,” he hears a deep voice say from upstairs, followed shortly by the patter of feet on the stairwell.

_ Shit. _

Straightening, Bucky forces a smile onto his face as Wanda and Pietro come down the stairs. Pietro is down first, a ball of energy with his silvery blond hair already sticking up, while Wanda emerges at a more sedate pace. 

At ten years old, the twins couldn’t be more different. Pietro is incapable of sitting still; Wanda is quiet and serious. While Wanda adores school, Pietro seems to think up ways of getting out of going in his sleep. If he’d been trying to fool anyone other than Natasha, he’d be at home more often than not. “Dad!” Pietro’s voice is loud and enthusiastic and echoes in Bucky’s head. And when the kid barrels into his midriff, the air rushes out of his lungs in a pained  _ ooof _ .

“Hey, kiddo,” Bucky manages. “Mornin’, Wanda,” he adds to his daughter. Her bright red hair is pulled into a neat plait, and she’s trying to sneak a cup of coffee. 

“Morning, Daddy,” she says primly. Lifting the mug to her lips, Wanda starts when Natasha clears her throat pointedly.

“No coffee on school days.” Natasha plucks the coffee from Wanda’s grasp, and replaces it with a glass of orange juice. “Now go hug your father.”

A martyred sigh escapes Wanda, but she does as she’s told. Trudging over to him, she nudges Pietro out of the way before wrapping her arms tightly around Bucky’s waist.

It causes a lump to rise in his throat.

Until Wanda pulls back, her button nose wrinkled, and says, “You smell.”

_ Fuckin’ kids. _

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It’s the first class of the morning, and the room is noisy, high pitched voices rising and falling in the usual hubbub before class begins. Steve smiles fondly at his students. While this certainly hadn’t been what he'd had in mind for his art degree, he can't say he regrets it. 

While most of the kids muck about in class, sometimes he finds a kid who gets that  _ look _ , the wonder in creating something shining bright in their eyes. 

That made giving up on the whole professional artist thing worth it.

“Right, let’s get started, kids,” Steve calls, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. The noise level doesn’t abate, and he sighs a little. Kids really are great. 

When they listen.

“Everyone, can I-can I…?” No one seems to even hear him.  _ Oh, boy _ .

Bringing his hand up to his mouth, Steve lets out a piercing whistle. The room falls silent abruptly.

“Good morning, everybody.”

“Good morning, Mr Rogers,” the children chorus back at him.

“Everybody have a good weekend?” he asks, smiling at them. They mumble incoherently, and Steve presses his lips together in amusement. “‘Kay, you guys can take a seat.”

There’s a faint rumble and the scraping of chairs as the kids sit down and take their things out of their bags. Steve waits for them to settle before he starts the lesson. 

“Today we’re gonna be doin’ origami? Does anybody know what origami is?”

Nobody looks at him, quiet now that a question has been asked. Finally, after a moment or two of silence, a little redhead sitting at the front of the class raises her hands. Steve isn’t surprised.

“Yes, Wanda?” He nods at her with a grin.

“It’s the Japanese art of folding paper,” she says seriously. 

“That’s right.” Steve shuffles some pages on his desk to pull out a few examples that he’d done before class. There was a butterfly, a fish, a frog, and the classic heron. He hands them over to the closest student to pass around.

“We’re going to start with some simple stuff,” he continues. “The history of it first--” His words are interrupted by loud groans. “C’mon, guys, it’ll be fun.” The enthusiasm in his voice is met by mostly unimpressed looks.

_ God, is this how Peggy feels? _

Feeling a flash of sympathy for his friend, Steve hands out worksheets, and spends some time talking about origami. “Like Wanda said, it’s a Japanese artform. But not everyone agrees. Some people think it might’ve come from China, since they were the first people to invent paper…”

By the end of the lesson, he’s staring at twenty four dazed expressions. The only person who’d managed to stave off boredom was Wanda. 

A shrill ring cuts through Steve’s talking, and he’d have to be blind to miss the relief on some of the kids’ faces. Pietro, sitting towards the back of the class, actually lets out a relieved sigh.

Steve tries not to take it too personally.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a relieved breath, Bucky steps out of the shower and onto the fluffy bathmat in the guest bathroom. He’d felt like ass and, according to his daughter, smelled like it too.

That one had inherited her tact from her mother.

Living with the kids, Natasha and her new husband, Clint, had been hard. He’d balked against it initially until Natasha had told him, in the gentlest voice he’d ever heard her use, that he didn’t have much of a choice.

She’d left his hospital room not long after that. And for the first time since coming home, Bucky had cried. 

_ Stop thinking about that _ , he orders himself.

Drying himself off with rough hands, Bucky carefully avoids looking at the fogged up mirror. It’s become habit now; the scars on his left pectoral and the dull gleam of his metal arm never fail to elicit an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach.

Bucky knows he ought to be grateful that SHIELD, an organisation involved in experimental prosthetics, had been willing to help him. The arm is far more advanced than anything available even a year ago. But all the hard metal does is remind him of what he lost.

“You’re whinin’ a lot in your old age,” Bucky mutters to himself under his breath. Shoving open the bathroom door, he steps out with the towel wrapped around his waist. He’s heading for his room when he hears a wolf whistle.

_ Oh, that’s just great _ .

He looks down the hallway to find Clint sitting on the couch in the living room. Looking perfectly at ease, he’s got his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms behind his head. Bucky can’t stop himself from hunching up in an effort to hide his scars. It’s ridiculous; not like Clint hasn’t seen them before.

“Don’t you have a class to teach?” Bucky asks, not quite managing to keep the irritation that he hadn’t been alone in the house out of his voice.

Never mind that it isn’t his fucking house.

But Clint doesn’t seem perturbed. 

“After lunch. I stayed to make baked French toast muffins.” He seems absurdly proud of that. Bucky wonders if he should curtsey.

“Who you sucking up to?” he asks instead.

“Maria Hill.” Seeing the lack of recognition on Bucky’s face, Clint adds, “The deputy headmistress. She smoothed over that whole thing last year when the over caught fire in the home ec department. I thought Fury was gonna can my ass.”

For a second, all Bucky can do is stare.

“You caused a fire in the home ec department?” he asks, dumbfounded. Who the fuck starts a  _ fire _ teaching  _ home economics _ ?

“I didn’t start it,” Clint huffs. “Natasha and I were sexting--”

“ _ What _ ?”

“--and I got distracted, and the wiring in the oven went kablooey, and then the next thing I know, the kitchen was on fire.”

There’s so much wrong about that sentence that Bucky doesn’t know where to start. And he  _ so _ doesn’t want to know about the sexting. 

But Clint is the king of overshare, which means that unless Bucky’s prepared to hear about Clint and Natasha’s sex life--he’s  _ really  _ not--he needs to go. Right now.

“Hey, y’know, I’d love to stick around--” Bucky’s saved from having to come up with an excuse when a little ding sounds out from the kitchen.

“Oh, that’s me.” Without waiting for him to say anything else, Clint hops off the couch to stride toward the kitchen. There’s a faint rustling sound, and then an amazing smell drifts over to Bucky.

“Leave one of those for me, would ya?” he calls as he pads down the hallway to the guest bedroom on the ground floor.

“Not on your life,” Clint answers cheerfully.

_ Asshole. _

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“Man, this right here...” Sam pauses to chew, and waves his muffin in Steve’s face as though to emphasise his words, “... is the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Steve answers, grinning faintly. 

Honestly, Sam’s reaction to the fancy muffins is borderline obscene. Steve bites into his own muffin--Clint had made dairy free chocolate chunk muffins for him, much to his embarrassment--and has to muffle his own little whimper.

_ Clint’s cooking really is  _ that  _ good. _

Totally makes up for him almost burning down half the school.

The only person not gushing is, Steve guesses, the person it was meant to impress. Nick Fury, the headmaster, is eyeing Clint suspiciously. Likely wondering what else Clint broke.

Luckily for Clint, though, Miss Hill chooses that moment to make an announcement.

“Everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

Immediately, the whole room falls silent. Steve wonders how the hell she manages to do that; he just about needs his inhaler after he’s done calling one of his classes to order.

“As you’re all aware, we have a parent/teacher’s conference coming up next week. So I’m going to need a couple of volunteers to help set up a drinks and snacks table.” Clint virtually launches himself out of his seat at that, but Miss Hill ignores him. “Also, we’re going to change things up a little this year. I want some of the children’s work to be on display in their respective classrooms. Parents will be glad to see how well their kids are doing here.”

Nick takes over now, his deep voice carrying easily through the room.

“So what we’re looking for is anything that will show the students at their best. Art, poetry, essays, science experiments, whatever. It’s important that  _ everyone  _ has a chance to shine.”

A few seconds of silence while Nick looks around the room. He reminds Steve of some kind of commander, as though he wouldn’t be out of place issuing commands to troops in battle.

His fingers itch to draw the headmaster that way, maybe with an eyepatch and a leather trench coat .

“...any questions?” Miss Hill is asking now, drawing Steve out of his day dream.

It doesn’t really come as a surprise when Clint’s hand launches into the air, nearly knocking Bruce Banner’s glasses off his face. The science teacher gives Clint a bemused look.

“I’m doing the catering, right?” he demands. “I mean, it’s really nice, how you’re trying to be democratic about it, but c’mon…”

For a long moment, Nick just stares at him. And then, without a word, turns on his heel and leaves the staff room.

Apparently there’s only so much one man can take.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, on a roll, posting twice in two days. 
> 
> *pats self on the back*

Looking around at his students, Steve feels a burst of pride. While there are still a few kids who haven’t quite gotten the hang of the whole origami thing, the rest are doing a great job. As he watches Malia, a girl with wild, curly black hair, frown down at her lily in concentration, he wonders if he shouldn’t have the fourth graders each make something to display for parent/teacher night.

It’s only a few days away, and the origami is something nice and simple that even kids who don’t have a thing for art can manage.

_Yeah, I like that._

He waits until just before the end of class before talking to the kids about it.

“So, uh, everybody…” No one gives any indication that they can hear him, the buzz in the classroom continuing unabated. He spares a moment to wish that he had Miss Hill’s powers.

“Everyone, listen up,” he shouts. That gets most of their attention, although it does take a second or two for all the chatter to die down.

But, since no inhalers were involved, Steve will take that as a win.

“I was thinking,” Steve says, “that maybe we oughta do somethin’ special for parent/teacher night. I guess you all know that it’s on Monday, right?”

There’s a low murmur of agreement and, judging by the looks on some of their faces, they could’ve done without the reminder. Steve remembers the feeling. He hadn’t wanted his ma to come anywhere near his school to hear about all the fights he’d been getting into. Although, these were some pretty good kids. They don’t have a whole lot to worry about in terms of that. The school has a very strict no bullying policy.

“What I had in mind is for you guys to do some origami that we can stick up on the walls. It can be whatever you want, and you can decorate it however you like. If you wanna make a pink frog with zebra stripes, that’s up to you. But I want you to give it your all.”

The bell rings then, and there’s a flurry as the students start to pack their things.

“I want everyone to practice their folding skills this weekend.” Steve raises his voice to be heard over the shuffling. “And be ready to hand something in by the end of Monday’s lesson.”

“Mr Rogers?”

Hearing his name being called, Steve looks over the heads of the passing students to see who it is. It was easier with this age group; sometimes, with the eighth graders, Steve had to stand on his toes. That was all kinds of humiliating.

“Hey, Pietro, what’s up?” Steve asks when he sees the familiar bright, silvery hair. He hopes that he doesn’t sound too surprised that the kid had come to ask him something. Unlike Wanda, Pietro hasn’t shown much of an interest in art.

“Can we really make whatever we want?” His expression is unusually serious.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says with a pleased smile. “It’s all up to you.”

“Awesome!” Grinning widely, Pietro barrels out of the classroom without a backward glance.

That had been unexpected. Shaking his head slightly, Steve turns to the next batch of kids coming through the classroom door.

He was kinda looking forward to what Pietro was gonna do.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dad, Dad, wake up!”

Bucky gives a pained groan when he feels the mattress beneath him bounce. The voice belongs to Pietro, and much as he loves the kid, having a high pitched voice squeaking in his ear is _not_ his preferred way of waking up.

“Ugh,” is all he manages to get out before the shouting is accompanied by a pair of small hands shaking his shoulder.

“I wanna show you what I did! Come on, Dad, come look.”

Rolling over reluctantly, his head giving that familiar throb, Bucky looks up at Pietro’s face. He’s got that bright expression that most kids get when they’re excited, his eyes lit up.

“Whatimezit?” he slurs.

“Two thirty. In the afternoon.”

Even as hungover as Bucky is, he can hear the note of censure in the kid’s voice. He feels an irrational surge of anger, and speaks before he can think better of it.

“Shouldn’t you be playin’ outside or somethin’?”

Bucky doesn’t look at Pietro as he forces himself into a sitting position. His hair is hanging in a tangled mess around his face and, as he reaches up to brush it aside with his left hand, the strands get caught in the slats of his metal arm. A low growl of frustration escapes him as he tries to yank the hair free.

“Dad, d’you think you could--”

“Do you have to talk so fuckin’ loud?” Bucky snaps. “Jesus, just let a guy wake up first.”

In the silence that follows, Bucky immediately feels guilty. But before he can apologise, Pietro is off the bed and out the door.

Which he makes sure to slam loudly.

Wincing as the sound reverberates through his head, Bucky seriously considers just crawling back under the covers and hiding there for the rest of the day.

But he ever since he joined the ranks of the proletariat, that option is no longer available to him.

_Fuck._

He manages to drag himself to the shower. The water feels good, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds. Last night was… a blur. That had been happening more and more often since he’d started working as a bouncer at Amadeus, one of the dingier bars around Brooklyn.

The situation isn’t ideal, Bucky knows that. And it isn’t just because Natasha had told him about a dozen times already.

Bucky hasn’t been coping very well with coming back to civilian life. And instead of dealing with it the way that Phil guy from the VA insists is healthy, Bucky’s been getting blackout drunk.

It’s the only way he knows to keep the nightmares at bay.

When he finally manages to get to the kitchen, Natasha is leaning against the counter, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Bucky remembers that look from when they’d been dating. It’s the one she gets when she’s about to rip someone’s balls off.

“Know it’s late,” he mumbles in an attempt to waylay her.

“Oh, I don’t care what time you drag your ass out of bed,” she replies pleasantly.

“Then what’s the problem?” Bucky asks, because it’s clear there is one.

“What did you say to Pietro?”

_Shit._

“I was dick to him,” he admits, but Natasha cuts him off.

“Oh, that wasn’t in any doubt. I just want to know what _the hell is wrong with you_?” Natasha’s voice raises to the shout toward the end, and Bucky flinches. He knows he deserves her ire.

Neither of them had planned on being parents. Hell, they hadn’t even planned on even being together by the end of the summer of their senior year. But they’d been young and so _incredibly stupid_.

He’d been stationed overseas for just over a month when her letter had arrived.

_James,_

_Turns out I’m pregnant. Twins. Congrats._

_Just thought I’d let you know. And ask if you wanted them to have_ _your last name in there somewhere._

_Take care of yourself._

_Natasha._

The letter had been concise, no hint of whether she was glad to be pregnant, or thinking of neutering him when he got back home. But Bucky hadn’t had much time to think about Natasha’s reaction since he’d been puking in the sand behind his tent not long after that.

It’d been a surprise to learn Natasha was pregnant. But he’d been even more taken aback by her decision to keep the babies.

Now, thinking back on it, Bucky can’t believe he doubted Natasha. She loved those kids with every breath in her body.

If only parenting would come so easily to everyone.

“Look, I’ll talk to him, alright? Where is he?”

“Not here. I sent him and Wanda next door to Jane’s place. Our neighbour,” she adds when she notices his confusion.

“Oh, right, the nerdy chick.” He realises too late that that is the wrong thing to say.

“Jane Foster is a brilliant scientist,” Natasha says tightly. “And unlike some people, she doesn’t mind spending time with kids.”

The truth in her words stings, and Bucky clenches his teeth in frustration. He _knows_ he’s fucking up; he doesn’t need the goddamn commentary.

“Then we’ll--we’ll talk later.”

“You’re going to the VA later. And then to work,” Natasha points out. “Where you’ll no doubt get very drunk,” she adds under her breath.

It takes a lot to keep him from losing his temper. Bucky swallows back the anger, ignoring the way it seems to burn his throat, and stalks out of the kitchen. He doesn’t deserve for Natasha to cut him any slack, but that doesn’t mean he wishes she wouldn’t.

Tying his hair back in jerky movements, Bucky looks around for his keys and cellphone before he leaves the house. The worst part of the whole thing is that he knows that before the night is over, he’ll no doubt have fulfilled Natasha’s prediction.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, this is heavenly,” Peggy sighs.

Her eyes are closed as she inhales the scent of her tea, and the expression on her face can only be described as bliss. Steve wonders why all his friends keep making O faces at their food.

Steve flushes at the thought, and carefully avoids looking at Peggy as he takes a sip of his own ginger tea. It’s mid-Autumn, and while it isn’t flu season yet, Steve likes to be prepared.

They’re in a small coffee shop, one of those off the beaten track places that Peggy always manages to find. It’s quiet and well lit, and most of the people there are murmuring to each other or reading a book or working on the computer.

It’s the kind of place that Sam would describe as _hipster_ , although Steve still isn’t entirely sure what that means.

Whatever. He likes it here. The staff is nice, and no one looks at him weird when he asks for tea instead of coffee; the caffine always makes his heart murmur play up, and trying to explain that to a nosy barista is never fun.

For a few minutes they talk about nothing in particular. Peggy’s grumbling about Principal Fury’s instructions to display student’s work.

“What am I going to do?” she huffs. “Plaster the bloody walls in essays?”

Sniggering at her aggrieved tone, they spend the rest of their time together trying to come up with a way for her to decorate her classroom. They’ve just finished arguing over who’s going to pay the bill--Peggy won, and only because she aimed that same death glare at him that she uses on her students--when Peggy asks out of the blue.

“Have you started seeing anyone?”

Steve chokes on air. Fighting to catch his breath, he watches as one of Peggy’s eyebrows arch in amusement.

“Are you quite alright?”

“Fine, just--I’m alright.” Steve clears his throat loudly; a young man wearing thick framed glasses frowns at him. “Well, isn’t it a gorgeous day?” he asks, hoping to avoid her question.

“There are no windows in here, Steve.” She cocks her head at him as concern flickers over her face. “I worry that you spend too much time by yourself.”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve jokes. “I’m surrounded by people all the time.”

“You know what I mean,” she says gently. “I know things with Sharon didn’t quite work out--”

“Please,” he cuts her off. “I-I don’t wanna talk about her, okay?”

She sighs quietly, but nods in agreement. They part shortly afterwards, slightly uncomfortable, although Peggy still presses a soft kiss to his cheek.   
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she murmurs.

“Yeah. Yeah, see you,” Steve says as he forces a smile. He heads in the opposite direction, head down and hands in his pockets. Usually an afternoon spent with Peggy left him in a good mood. But talk of Sharon…

_Maybe I’m not as over it as I’d thought._

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It’s just gone two thirty in the morning, and Bucky knows that it’s time to go. He’s swaying slightly on his seat as the bartender, Brock Rumlow, tells him some farfetched story about his own military days.

Bucky doesn’t really give a shit what Rumlow did in the Gulf, but whatever. The guy’s got the bottle, and he’s generous when he thinks someone’s listening.

So he makes the right noises, nods when necessary, and nudges his glass forward when he needs a refill.

And everyone’s happy.

Lips twisting bitterly at the thought, Bucky takes another shot.

“What ‘bout you, big guy?” Rumlow finally asks. “What’s your story?”

If this asshole seriously thinks Bucky’s going to spill his guts to him, he’s fucking deluded. Because it’s not just Rumlow’s tendency to talk about himself that gets on Bucky’s nerves; hell, it works in his favour because then Bucky doesn’t have to give anything away.

The thing about Rumlow is that he’s a bully. It’s there in the way he speaks to the wait staff, and the way he leers at the female patrons.

“Nothin’ to tell,” Bucky replies, working to keep the distaste out of his voice.

“Oh, c’mon,” Rumlow weedles. “The whole broody, mysterious thing only works on chicks. You can tell me.”

Bucky sighs. He really isn’t in the mood for this.

“Me an’ my team got captured. Things got ugly. Now here I am.”

“Jeez, talk my ear off why don’t ya?” Rumlow scoffs.

“You talk more than enough for the both of us,” Bucky snaps back. His jaw clicks shut as irritation washes over him. He hadn’t meant for Rumlow to get to him.

The loud laugh startles him. Rumlow’s got his head thrown back, his broad shoulders shaking as he laughs.

“Oh, my God,” Rumlow barks. “There’s an actual personality in there! Who’da fuckin’ thought?”

An unwilling snort escapes Bucky. Makes sense; this guy’s ego leaves him virtually indestructible.

“Alright, man,” he mutters. “Gimme one for the road. I gotta get home.”

“Girlfriend keep you on a short leash?” The smirk on Rumlow’s face is vaguely mocking. He’s sliding the bottle back and forth between his hands on the bartop, making no move to give Bucky a refill.

“Something like that.”

Rumlow gives that loud, grating laugh again, and fills Bucky’s glass one last time. The alcohol burns going down; it’s strange how Bucky relishes the feeling.

Because with ache comes the knowledge that maybe he’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

“... everything ready for tonight,” Fury is telling them. “See if you can get any of the kids to volunteer to help get the classrooms ready--”

“Nick, the parents pay about ten grand a year to send their kids here,” Tony Stark interrupts. “You really think they’re going to be happy that their spoiled darlings are soiling their soft little hands?”

A few of the other teachers murmur in agreement. Tony’s the school’s drama teacher, and much loved among the students.

He’s also an enormous pain in Nick’s ass.

Narrowing his eyes, Nick manages to grit out, “Our students do come from privileged backgrounds. That’s why it’s important that they appreciate how difficult the so-called menial jobs are.”

“It helps that that’ll encourage ‘em to study hard to take their place with the one percent, huh?”

“That one percent pays your salary, Stark,” Nick reminds him impatiently. “You might wanna keep that in mind.”

The bell rings at that point, cutting off whatever smartass comment Stark had been about to make.

Thank the Lord for small favours.

Conversations strike up between the teachers as they leave the staff room. He watches as Tony makes some joking comment to Banner. The science teacher hunches his shoulders as he laughs, as though trying not to draw attention to himself. Bruce does the mild mannered thing really well, but when he gets mad…

Well, nobody really likes him when he’s angry.

Shaking the thought off, Nick glances over at the other teachers, looking for his newest member of staff.

Nick catches sight of him beside their PE instructor, Thor Odinson. The huge bear of a man is leaning down to hear what Rogers is saying, apparently intent. He can’t help but smile at the sight, the incongruous image of the slenderly built artist standing beside one of the biggest men Nick had ever seen.

It’s something of a relief to see Rogers mingling with his colleagues. Nick relaxes a fraction as Odinson lets out a booming laugh; he pats Rogers on the shoulder with an enormous palm, and Rogers staggers slightly.

“We will speak again soon, my friend,” Thor says loudly. “My students and I are exploring the wonders of the great American pastime this morning.”

“Baseball?” he hears Rogers ask.

“Dodgeball,” Thor corrects. He strides out of the room then, his usual affable expression in place, and nods a respectful greeting at Nick as he passes.

Waiting until he and Rogers were the last two in the staffroom, Nick strolls over to the other man.

“You got a minute, Rogers?”

“Uh, yessir.” Rogers immediately turns to face him, hand flying up to his hair to try and flatten it. The nervous gesture almost makes Nick smile.

“Relax, kid,” he says. “I just wanted to check in on how you were doin’. Find out if you were okay for tonight.”

“Oh.” Rogers’ thin shoulders sag for a moment before he rallies. “It’ll be good, sir. I mean, uh…” He clears his throat, shifts on his feet; Rogers isn’t as confident as he’d like to project.

“But they’re great kids,” Steve says as he regains his footing. “So, it should be easy, right?”

Spoken like a true novice. But Nick isn’t going to be the one to burst Rogers’ bubble. Best way to learn, he’d realised, was through experience.

“Well, you let me know if you need help with anything, okay? And good luck for tonight.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Nick walks away, a faint smile playing at his lips. He likes Rogers, he decides. But the kid is gonna need to toughen up.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not gonna fuckin’ happen, Nat!”

Pacing the length of his bedroom, Bucky’s fighting the urge to rip his own hair out. It’d been a rough weekend, one hangover bleeding into another. Added to that had been the weight of Natasha’s disapproval.

He hadn’t seen either Pietro or Wanda the whole weekend. He hadn’t been able to apologise.

“You asshole, these are your children,” Natasha snaps back at him. “Are you seriously gonna tell me that you won’t take a night off getting drunk to speak to their teachers?”

“I work there,” Bucky argues, but it’s weak and he knows it. Part of him doesn’t even know why he’s arguing. Of course he’ll go.

But the other part of him, the one that’s always angry and ready to lash out, won’t stop talking. It’s that version of himself that seems to have the mic most often lately.

“Why the hell can’t you go?” he demands.

“Deposition with a client.” Natasha stays quiet for a moment, and when she next speaks, the hardness is gone from her tone. “Please, James. They think--they think you don’t care.”

That breaks through. Guilt floods him, washing the anger away.

_Jesus, I just_ keep _fuckin’ up._

“Shit,” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

“God, Nat, I’m sorry.”

He hears her draw in a shaky breath.

“Please just tell me you’ll be there.”

“Yeah. God, yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” And with that, Natasha hangs up. For a long minute, Bucky stands there with the phone tightly clenched in his right hand. It feels like he’s unravelling.

_Get it together, Barnes._

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, leg jittering, he pulls up the number for Amadeus.

“Hey, it’s Bucky,” he says when one of the waitresses picks up. “I need to talk to Pierce.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve’s last class is with the fourth graders. Throughout the day, he’d collected different artworks from the different classes he taught. The fifth graders had pressed dried leaves, and made Halloween decorations while the sixth graders had melted beads--he’d had to beg Clint Barton to let him use the home ec class for that--to make sun catchers. Everything was waiting til after school to be hung up in the art centre for tonight.  
And if Steve’s a nerd for being excited about it, well… he’s okay with that.

He was just so proud of these kids. Each of them had made such an effort, even the kids who liked to act like they were too cool for this kinda thing.

“Afternoon, everybody,” he greets, not bothering to keep his grin off his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr Rogers,” they chant. They’re a little more energetic at this time of the day, the end of the school just within their reach.

“I hope you’ve all been practising,” he says as they all sit down and begin to unpack their things. “And when you’re done, I want you to write your name on the back, okay? I wanna give it to your parents to see.”

There’s a low murmur of agreement as the kids get to work. Steve wonders around, checking what the kids are doing. He takes a moment to praise them as he sees the finishing touches they’re putting on their origami.

As Steve gets toward the back of the classroom, he spots Pietro. The boy is sat hunched up over his desk, and the usual exuberance that surrounds him muted. Steve frowns.

“Hey, Pietro,” he says quietly, getting down on his haunches in front of the desk. “You doin’ okay?”

“Fine.” Pietro’s shoulders are up by his ears now.

Steve flounders for a moment, wondering if he should press it; the kid looks uncomfortable though, so he decides to let it go for now. He’d keep an eye on Pietro tomorrow as well, just in case.

Class ends a couple of minutes later, and everyone rushes to put their creations in the box sitting on his desk. Steve notices Pietro shooting up out of his seat, and shouldering passed his classmates before disappearing out the door with Wanda.

He gets a bad feeling as he stares at the box.

A loud knock startles him from his thoughts.

Standing ramrod straight at the door, Sam has his hand up in a salute. Steve can’t help the faint grin that cross his face at the sight of his friend.

“Sam Wilson, reporting for duty, sir.”

“Dumbass,” Steve says with a shake of his head. Still, he returns the salute.

“Man, why you artsy types always need so much damn space,” Sam complains as he steps inside. “Look at this place. It’s gonna take forever to get everything up.”

“You offered to help,” Steve reminds him absently. There’s still something tugging at him, and he looks at the box of fourth grader origami again. Pietro’s behaviour has him worried.

“So what d’you want me to do?” Sam asks as he looks around. He’s shrugging out of his jacket, clearly prepared for some heavy lifting.

“Uh, there are some sun catchers to hang up. They’re over there.” Steve nods at a couple of boxes in the corner of the room.

While Sam busies himself with the sun catchers, muttering under his breath as he examines them, Steve carefully rummages through the folded paper. There are frogs and lilies and rabbits and… a penis.

Screwing his eyes shut, Steve hopes that when he next opens them, the origami dick with a frowny face on it will disappear.

But it doesn’t happen. Steve is still staring at a paper penis and now, he notices, under the face is the word ‘ **DAD** ’. He doesn’t need to turn the thing around to see the name Pietro Barnes scrawled across the back.

Steve isn’t sure whether he ought to be furious or impressed that the kid had worked out his rage at his father through his art.

“What you got there?” Sam asks, looking over his shoulder.

For some absurd reason, Steve finds himself blushing. He presses the origami to his chest, but it’s too late. Sam looks from the dick to Steve’s face, and back at the dick.

“Uh, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“That looks an awful lot like a penis.” Steve doesn’t think Sam’s eyebrows can go any higher.

Steve looks down. Yup. Still a penis.

“Sure seems that way,” he agrees.

“There a reason that thing is shaped like a penis?”

“Kid an’ his dad are havin’ issues?” Steve guesses.

“Huh.” Now Sam looks impressed. “I'm guessing you didn't teach him that?" Steve shakes his head. "Amazing what you can find on the internet these days.”

“I’m just glad he didn’t make an origami asshole.”

For a long moment, Sam and Steve just look at each other before they burst out laughing.

After finally calming down, Steve is sure to place Pietro’s work in his desk drawer. They’re going to have a talk in the morning.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking around the swanky private school, Bucky feels incredibly out of place. Parents and teachers are bustling around, dressed in what looks like their Sunday best while he’s wearing a windbreaker over a baggy red shirt, and a pair of worn jeans.

Nat had slaved her way through law school while raising two kids, with minimal help from him since he’d been abroad, and had managed to land a job a some fancy law firm. Of course she’d send them to the best school money could buy.

Of course there’d be a dress code for places like this.

_God, I’m a fuckin’ idiot._

He’s gonna end up embarrassing his kids by looking like a poor relation. Bucky feels his heart starting to speed up as his breaths get shallower.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

_Not here, please, God, not here, not here…_

“Hey, buddy!” a loud voice says from just beside him.

Bucky jerks as he feels an arm come around his shoulders, pulling him tight into a hard chest.  
“C’mon, man,” Clint says more quietly. “Let’s get you somewhere you can breathe, okay?”

Nodding gratefully, Bucky allows the other man to tug him away from where everyone’s doing the meet and greet towards the gardens. The noise from the crowd is distant here, and Bucky can smell freshly cut grass. He focuses on that, drawing the scent into his lungs before releasing it.

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely.

“Don’t mention it.” Clint’s voice is uncharacteristically serious, and Bucky feels an arrow of shame pierce through him.

He isn’t supposed to be like this.

Neither of them say anything for a while. Clint is staring pointedly towards where they’d come from, pretending not to notice Bucky trying to calm his racing heart.

“You okay?” Clint asks.

“Yeah.” He pauses to clear his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay, good.” Taking him at his word, Clint turns to face him. “I’ve got a list of teachers’ names and where their classrooms are. Most of the teachers have got Wanda and Pietro, so make sure to ask ‘em about both, alright?”

Accepting a piece of paper with Clint’s writing on it, Bucky feels a lump rise in his throat. This time it’s harder to force down.

“You could be doin’ this for them, y’know?” Clint gives him a questioning look. “I mean, you’re better with the kids than I am. And you seem pretty on top of things,” Bucky adds, holding the page up as evidence. “Maybe you should be doin’ this. Maybe...” He sniffs, blinking hard. “Maybe it’d be better for ‘em if you did.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Clint snaps. “You wanna know why?” He doesn’t wait for Bucky to answer as he continues, “Because I’m not their fuckin’ father. You are. Now pull your head outta your ass, get in there, an’ let those people tell you how great your kids are.”

And with that, Clint stomps off.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s official, Steve thinks. He hasn’t ever been this uncomfortable in his _life._ And this is coming from someone who’d been stuffed into many a locker by high school bullies.

He’s not stupid. This is a school for the elite, and you only became part of that elite with a whole lot of cash. It was just that… well, he hadn’t realised quite who he was dealing with until he’d come face to face with someone he’d vaguely recognised.

Turns out Wall Street bankers who almost decimate the economy still have enough money to send their kids to fancy private schools.

Maybe Tony isn’t as full of crap as he’d always thought.

So after a few polite smiles, more than a few condescending questions about his qualifications, Steve is finally alone in his classroom.

Looking around at the kids’ art, he feels a sharp bite of righteous anger. Most of the parents had made the right noises, _ooohing_ and _aaahing_ over their children’s work, there hadn’t been any real appreciation. Like if it’s not friggin’ Picasso or Monet, it’s beneath their notice.

Steve can feel himself starting to get agitated; he tries those breathing exercises that help him with his asthma. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly.

“Uh, hi.” Steve’s eyes snap open when he hears the voice. Standing there is a casually dressed man with dark hair. He’s biting on his lower lip anxiously.

“Hi,” Steve says, getting to his feet. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m lookin’ for…” The man trails off as he consults a piece of paper. “For Mr Rogers?”

“That’s me.” Steve gives the stranger a puzzled look. He can’t imagine what--

“I’m, uh, I’m Wanda and Pietro’s father,” the man says. “Bucky Barnes.” He steps further into the class, looking around at the decorations for a moment before turning his attention to Steve. “It’s nice to meet you,” Bucky says, his hand extended.

A blush has started spreading across Steve. Oh, God, this is a _parent_. But, because he wasn’t decked out in a four figure suit, Steve had thought he was a… a…

_Oh, Jesus, I’ve been in this place for too long._

The man-- _Bucky_ \--is giving him a strange look, and Steve realises that he’s gotten lost in his own head again.

“Sorry,” Steve says with an awkward smile. He accepts Bucky’s hand, and gives it a quick shake. “Uh, it’s--it’s good to meet you,” he adds.

“Yeah, you too.” Bucky hands disappear into his pockets, and he looks uncomfortable.

And Steve’s probably adding to that with his staring, he knows. It’s just that this is the person Pietro’s so angry with. The kid had to have known that he could get into serious trouble for handing that piece of origami in, and he’d done it anyway.

“You’ve got really amazing kids,” Steve says when the silence between them stretches out too long. Bucky gives him a relieved smile, and he can’t help but notice what a pretty colour Bucky’s eyes are. They’re a shade between blue and grey, and the artist in Steve is momentarily transfixed.

“Thanks. I think so too,” he replies softly. Melancholy crosses his expression for a second. Then, seeming to catch himself, Bucky gestures around the room. “The kids make all these?”

The entire room is covered in artwork. Sun catchers dangle from one wall and part of the ceiling, while the decorated leaves and origami have been stuck carefully to the wall.

“Uh-huh. Fifth, sixth, and fourth grade,” he says, pointing out the respective projects.

“Bet they had fun.”

“We all did,” Steve agrees. “Although--” And now Steve nods at the sun catchers, “--those were the most challenging. I had to talk the head of the home ec department into letting us use his ovens and muffin pans. Almost lost my soul in the bargaining process,” he jokes.

“Yeah, Clint can be a pain in the ass sometimes.” The smile that crosses Bucky’s face appears more genuine this time.

But before Steve can ask how he knows Clint, Bucky turns to him and asks, “Can I see Pietro and Wanda’s stuff?”

_Oh, shit._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

For some reason, Rogers blanches. It’s a strange reaction, and Bucky tries to figure out what caused it. He’d asked to see his kids’ art… stuff. Surely all the parents had asked him the same thing?

“Course,” Rogers says brightly. “They’re right over here.” The slight man moves across the room, and Bucky notices the way Rogers runs his palms against the thighs of his khakis.

Rogers’ apprehension sparks a similar feeling in Bucky, and he feels his shoulders hunch up as tension crawls through him.

“So, uh, this is Wanda’s,” Rogers says, carefully plucking a paper tiger from its spot on the wall. The stripes had been carefully drawn and coloured in and, on the back in Wanda’s neat handwriting, it says **Mama**.

His lips curve up into a smile as something in his chest gives a tug. It takes him a second to look up and meet Rogers’ gaze.

“Where’s Pietro’s…” He struggles to find the word for a second or two.

“Origami,” Rogers inserts helpfully. “Did you know that the origin of origami is actually disputed? People think--” His words cut off abruptly as he seems to realise that he’s rambling.

Slender shoulders rise and fall as Rogers tries not to squirm under the weight of Bucky’s stare.

“I didn’t put it up,” he says finally.

“What? Why not?” Bucky demands, offended. There’s a misshapen animal on the wall that looks like a cross between a dog and a rabbit. Was what Pietro did really so bad that the asshole couldn’t put it on the fuckin’ wall?

The anger burning inside him must make it onto his face because Rogers runs a hand through his hair with a resigned sigh.

“Lemme show you,” he says quietly.

Bucky follows closely behind Rogers toward his desk. The other man walks around it and opens a drawer. He spends a moment riffling through it before pulling out…

“Is this a joke?” he asks tightly.

A sheet of paper has been folded into the shape of a penis, and on the head, someone had drawn a scowling face. Just beneath that, it read **Dad.**

“Answer me,” Bucky snaps, glaring at Rogers. The sympathy in those bright blue eyes makes him angry, even as hurt and shame form a caustic mix in the pit of his stomach.

“He--” Rogers hesitates before forging on, “He’s just a kid. Probably thought he was being funny.” The look in his eyes, though, says he doesn’t quite believe it.

Silence descends on classroom for a long moment. Not meeting the other man’s gaze, Bucky mutters a terse, “Nice to meet ya, Rogers,” before hurrying out the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve is subdued for the rest of the night, although luckily it doesn't really matter. Only a more parents stop by his classroom, and aren't all that interested in spending more than a few minutes there. 

He can't stop thinking about the hurt on Bucky Barnes’ face. Even though he knows he shouldn't, Steve locks the class up early, and heads to the school’s foyer. 

Predictably, Clint is overseeing things as the last of the food was consumed. He preens as people comment to each other about how good it all is, although he doesn't say anything. It must take Herculean effort not to, Steve thinks. Clint’s seldom shy about singing his own praises in front of the staff.  

“Hey,” Steve greets as he sidles up beside Clint. 

The taller man looks down at him with a grin. “You're gonna have to move fast if you want anything, big guy. You want me to muscle people outta the way for ya?”

In the brief moment it takes him to reply, it looks like Clint is gearing himself up to do just that. 

“No, no. Thanks, though,” Steve says loudly, reaching up to put a hand on Clint’s arm to stop him. “I, uh, I wanted to ask you something. About your--your friend.” This last part is said in a mumble. 

“What? You gotta speak up, man, I don't always hear too good.”

_Dumbass_ , he chides himself. Not wanting everyone to overhear, Steve jerks his head towards the stairwell leading to Nick’s office.

Clint hesitates, clearly not wanting to leave the food unattended. It’s impossible for Steve to keep himself from rolling his eyes at the pained look on the other man’s face. 

_ Ma’d knock my eyes right outta my head if she saw that _ , he thinks to himself. 

Still, he's glad when he doesn't need to convince Clint to follow him. With a resigned sigh, Clint nods. 

“I met your friend,” Steve says once they're in private. He can't help the way his shoulders hunch up awkwardly, or the flush that creeps across his cheeks. But he's worried. There'd been something bleak in Bucky’s expression before he's stormed off; plus, the last thing he wanted was for Pietro to get into trouble. He’s just a kid who did something kinda dumb. 

“My…?” Clint looks puzzled before realisation dawns. “You mean Bucky?” When Steve nods, Clint gives him a wary look. “Alright.”

That's not encouraging. Steve is determined to soldier on, even if it's the last thing he wants to do. 

“Yeah. There was a… a bit of a problem,” Steve begins. 

“Is he okay?” Clint asks immediately. 

_ Okay, clearly there is cause for  _ some  _ concern.  _

“I don't know,” he says honestly. 

“Well, what the hell happened?”

“Gimme a chance, and I'll tell ya,” Steve barks. Clint presses his lips together mutinously before waving a hand at Steve to indicate that he should continue.

And so Steve explains the situation. It's too dark to see Clint’s face, but he does let out a little laugh at the origami dick. Other than that, though, he doesn't say a word. 

The only way Steve even knows that Clint is listening is the way his entire body goes still as he describes the look on Bucky’s face before he left. 

“ _ Goddamn it, _ ” Clint growls. He doesn't spare Steve a backward glance as he stalks away from him. Long strides carry him away from Steve, leaving him alone in the darkness. 

“Can see why they're buddies,” Steve huffs to himself irritably. “Buncha friggin’ drama queens.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. He doesn't even bother to look who's calling. A distant part of him is screaming at him to answer the damn thing, but it's overwhelmed by a sort of… numbness. 

This happens sometimes. Bucky’s sure the shrinks down at the VA would have a name for it, but to him it feels like an out of body experience. The world around him keeps moving while Bucky’s just standing still. Sounds, sights, they all pass him by, leaving little in the way of memory behind. 

Sometimes, when he's like this, Bucky likes to stay still. Movement is too much of an effort. Other times, he feels like he has to move, or he'll just shake out of his skin. It's not a uniform thing either. He can spend hours walking, and then abruptly lose the strength to do it miles away from home and no idea how he got there. 

The part of him that's still aware hopes that doesn't happen tonight. It’ll be an inconvenience for Natasha or Clint to come find him. They already put up with so much of his bullshit.

_ Or maybe I'll just keep walkin’ til I'm far away.  _

Rational or not, the thing with Pietro had knocked something loose inside him. He was doing such a shitty job with  _ everything _ ; he wasn't a friend or a parent’s ass. 

Sometimes Phil tells him that these are things to be expected. After what happened to him and his team in the desert--Bucky shies away from the memory--it was okay to fall apart a little. 

Platitudes that don't help anyone. Bucky is  _ strong _ , he's always been  _ strong, together in his head. _

If he’s not Sergeant James Barnes, then who is he? What’s left?

Bucky doesn’t know the answer to that. He keeps walking.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“James, this is my  _ fifth _ call. It’s going on midnight, and you still haven’t come home.” Natasha is working to keep her voice even, aware that Wanda and Pietro might now be asleep like they’re supposed to be. “Please, call me when you get this message.”

“You okay?” Clint asks softly. Those familiar hazel eyes are shadowed in concern, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over her palm. 

“I’m worried about him,” Natasha murmurs. “He… he gets disoriented sometimes, and what if he can’t find his way home?” She stops talking, hearing the faint note of hysteria creeping into her voice. 

It makes her angry that he can still get this kind of reaction out of her. She doesn’t lose her cool, it’s not helpful and it’s undignified.

But damn it, what if he got hurt?

Getting up off the couch to pace the length of the living room, Natasha tries to think of where Bucky would go. She knows it won’t help--Bucky doesn’t think like Bucky when he gets like this--but it makes her feel better.

Clint gets to his feet, and gently puts his hands on her shoulders to still her. She glares at him, daring him to tell her not to worry, or some other bullshit sentiment.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. Natasha holds herself stiff for a second before allowing herself to lean on him.

“C’mon,” he says after a few minutes. “You need to get some sleep. I’ll wait up.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Who the actual fuck still uses a landline anymore? _

That’s the first thing that goes through Steve’s head when the shrill ring of the phone pierces through his sleep. Groaning and fumbling for the damn thing, Steve answers with a groggy, “‘Lo?”

“Mr Rogers, this is Jasper Sitwell.” There’s a long beat of silence as Steve tries to force his clouded brain to remember who that is. Jasper Sitwell helpfully reminds him, adding in a terse voice, “Your landlord.”

“Oh.” Then, “ _ Oh _ .” Steve sits up, and pulls his sheet up to his chest as though he thought the man on the other end of the line could see him. “Yes, sir. Is there a problem?” He barely manages to stifle a yawn.

“Your cat is yowling downstairs in front of the Ward’s apartment. The damn thing scratched me when I tried to bring it inside.”

“Yeah, Felicia’s not real big on strangers tryin’ to touch her,” Steve agrees inanely.

“Well, don’t you think someone who’s more familiar to her should go get her? Her owner maybe?” Sitwell asks with exaggerated patience.

“O-okay, yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll--yeah, I’ll go do that.”

Hanging up and struggling into a sweater and some shoes, Steve heads downstairs to retrieve Felicia. Of all the allergies plaguing him, at least cat hair isn’t one of them. Although, right now, freezing his ass off at one in the morning, Steve can’t help but think that maybe a cat allergy wouldn’t have been a bad thing.

It’s started raining in the past few minutes, and Felicia is meowing pitifully. Only, she won’t let him pick her up. Instead, she decides to make him chase her, squeezing her furry body through the building’s front security gate, and trotting off into the dark.

“Felicia,” he hisses. “Get back here.”

But when has a cat ever actually come when it’s human calls? The last Steve sees of her is the solitary white spot at the end of her tail. 

“Damn it.”

He nods in greeting as he passes the Wards, who are watching him silently, and opens the security gate. Muttering irritably under his breath, shivering as a drop of rain hits the back of his neck, Steve calls for the cat.

Finally, after looking left and right, and then again, Steve spots her on the curb. But what surprises him is that she’s rubbing her head against a stranger’s leg, meowing loudly. 

The man doesn’t seem to notice the rain; he’s just sitting there on the curb, shoulders slumped, head bowed down. 

_ Must be homeless _ , Steve thinks with a pang of sympathy. 

“Hey, mister,” he says, not too loud so as not to startle the man. “Are you okay?” 

Sam would read him the riot act for approaching a stranger in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t in Steve to just leave someone to sit alone in the rain. At the very least, maybe he could bring this guy a blanket or something.

But the stranger doesn’t react, and Steve feels a faint prickle of wariness. Still, he moves passed it, getting closer to where Felicia appears to be trying to climb into the man’s lap.

That’s when the stranger moves. His left arm moves stiffly, and he appears to be gently petting Felicia’s fur.

“She likes you,” Steve says once he’s stopped beside the other man. He’s shivering against the cold, and wonders why the man hasn’t looked for cover.

At last, the stranger looks up, and the streetlight from across the road illuminates his face enough for Steve to recognise him. 

It’s Bucky Barnes.

_ Holy shit. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

There’s someone standing beside him. That person is talking to him, but the words don’t seem to register with Bucky. It’s all just sound, syllables senseless blending together. The only thing really grounding him right now is the warm weight that’s settled on his lap. 

He sees that it’s a cat. The fingers of his left hand are in the animal’s fur, and something in his memory tells him that it should feel soft.

Only, he doesn’t feel anything.

A light touch on his shoulder makes him jerk sharply. The abrupt movement startles the animal. It leaps off of him, a disgruntled hiss escaping it. That person though, the one who’d dared to touch, appeared unperturbed.

“Bucky, it’s Steve Rogers. We met earlier tonight.”

Blinking, he realises that the face and voice are vaguely familiar. Bucky doesn’t say anything, unsure what to say. What is Rogers doing here?

“I live in there,” Rogers says in answer to his unspoken question, pointing at the apartment building a few feet away; he doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky, though, watching him carefully.

That’s smart.

“You wanna come in?” Rogers continues. “I can give Clint a call, so he can come pick you up. Or you can--you can sleep on my couch if you want.”

But that isn’t. He frowns at Rogers, and the other man licks his lips nervously.

“It’s raining,” he points out. “You’re getting all wet.” 

For some reason, this makes Bucky smile. Rogers’ expression is completely serious, and he doesn’t seem to notice the way his own hair is sticking to his head. 

“C’mon,” Rogers says, seizing initiative. He tugs at Bucky’s left arm gently. His strength is minimal, nowhere near enough to get Bucky off the ground, but Bucky pushes himself up, some strange impulse telling him to follow the slender man’s lead. 

Rogers has to crane his neck to look up into Bucky’s face. It seems to take him a second to adjust to that, but it doesn’t unsettle him for long. He turns to the cat, scooping it up into his arms. 

“This way,” Rogers says. Bucky follows obediently, but as he does so, he can’t help but wonder why. That distant part of his brain is puzzling things over; they don’t know each other, had only met…? He frowns, tries to calculate how much time had passed between his being at the school to being wherever he is now.

He doesn’t ponder for long. Rogers is looking around as though to make sure they were alone, before he whispers, “We gotta hurry.”

“Why?” Bucky asks. He’s surprised Rogers as much as himself with the question.

But that doesn’t last long.

“What, you don’t think people’d have a problem with me lettin’ a strange man into the building at two in the morning? They’d probably call the cops. Now, let’s go.”

Rogers hurries forward, with Bucky easily keeping pace. They head for a flight of stairs, and Rogers trudges up; they’ve barely made it to the second floor before Bucky hears wheezing. He glances over toward where the sound is coming from. 

It’s Steve. He’s trying to disguise it, but he can’t quite keep his struggle for air under wraps in the still night air. Bucky slows down slightly, and it earns him a fierce scowl when the other man realises what he’s doing.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Bucky doesn’t say anything. Still, he doesn’t lengthen his stride and, when he thinks Rogers won’t notice, Bucky sneaks a peak at him. 

This is strange. When Bucky gets like…  _ this _ … it takes him a long while to decompress. He rarely responds well to people speaking to him, and contact… 

Yeah, that doesn’t usually work out too well for whoever touches him.

But, right now, it feels like he’s coming awake. And now, looking at this scrawny ass art teacher, with more guts than brains, Bucky feels the faintest stirring of irritation.

_ What kind of a moron invites a stranger on the street into their apartment? _

Finally, they arrive at an apartment door, and Steve opens up, allowing the damn cat to go in first. Next, the lights flicker on, and Bucky has to blink against the sudden brightness. 

Steve ignores Bucky, ignores the way his own body is shivering, and goes onto his tiptoes to reach a cupboard, withdrawing a bag of cat food.

“You can sit, if you want,” Steve says over his shoulder, while the damn cat does it’s best to trip him up.

While Bucky’s feeling more present, he doesn’t feel like talking--arguing, probably, because everything this guy is doing is driving him nuts--so he takes a seat on the slightly worn looking couch. He’s only just now beginning to feel the cold.

There’s more rustling in the kitchen, the cat meowing loudly, and then Steve emerges. He’s taken his shoes off, Bucky notices.

“Uh, I dunno if you wanna give Clint a call?” Steve asks as he moves across the apartment. “Or I could do it,” he adds as he disappears into what Bucky assumes is a bedroom. “But either way, you might wanna let him know that you’re okay.” The words are slightly muffled, and Bucky sees that it’s because he’s got a bunch of towels in his arms.

“Here ya go.” Steve drops the towels on the couch beside Bucky, and then grabs one to begin drying himself off. Watching him for a brief moment, Bucky follows suit.

“Do you need to use my phone?” Steve asks. His head reappears out from under the towel, hair dishevelled. Bucky stares at him; it’s a strangely disarming sight. He doesn’t answer.

An exasperated sigh escapes Steve, and his eyes roll back so far, Bucky can see the whites.

“Alright,” he grumbles, “ _ I’ll  _ call him.” He allows the towel to land on the floor before pulling out his cell phone. “Know I’ve got Clint’s number in here somewhere,” Steve continues, more to himself than anything else.

“No.”

Steve stops short, eyebrows raised.

“You care to gimme a little more than that?” Steve asks when Bucky doesn’t elaborate.

“Just… please. Don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a big thank you to the people who've taken the time to comment. I appreciate it more than I can say.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve is torn. On the one hand, Clint really should know that his friend isn’t in the hospital or something. But, on the other, Bucky has this slightly cornered look in his eye, and the expression tugs at something in Steve’s chest. 

Heaving a sigh, his hand drops down to his side. The gesture seems to relax Bucky to a degree. He leans back against the couch.

_ Okay. Now what? _

A voice that sounds a lot like his Ma’s points out that Bucky is clearly freezing, if the slight blue tinge around his lips is any indication.

“Take your clothes off,” he orders curtly.

Blue grey eyes jump to his, and Bucky looks mildly alarmed. It’s beyond Steve ability to hold back the little huff that escapes his throat. Neither of them are in any kind of shape for bedroom shenanigans. 

If Steve were even interested. Which he isn’t.

Bucky certainly wouldn’t be.

“You’re gonna get pneumonia,” Steve informs him. Actually, that applies to both of them, and Steve’s body isn’t always the best at fighting off things like that. He can already guarantee that he’ll have the sniffles by tomorrow morning. “I’m gonna see if I got anything for you to wear. Wait here.”

That last part had probably been unnecessary, but whatever. And while he’s in his bedroom, Steve can get into some warm clothes himself so maybe he  _ won’t _ have to be hospitalised before winter’s even begun.

Rummaging through his closet, Steve hurriedly changes out of his wet clothes, allowing them to drop down onto the floor. He wants to crawl into bed  _ so badly _ . But he’s got a guest to take care of.

He finds a stretched out t-shirt and a pair of shorts. God, these things are going to be humiliatingly small on the larger man.

_ Beggars can’t be choosers, _ Ma’s voice reminds him.

Upon returning to the living room, he finds that Bucky has removed his shirt and his jacket. The sight freezes Steve in place; for a moment, he’s mesmerised by the play of muscle along Bucky’s back as he carefully folds his shirt. 

Bucky turns abruptly. He starts at the sight of Steve, and his right hand immediately moves up to cover his left arm. It’s only then that Steve notices the dull gleam of metal. The move to hide his prosthetic seems so instinctual that it makes Steve’s chest ache. Pulling his thoughts away from what could’ve happened to the other man, Steve holds out the clothes.

“They’re, uh, they’ll probably be a little tight,” he says, being sure not to allow his gaze to drop to Bucky’s arm. “But if you give me your clothes, I can hang ‘em out to dry for you. And I’ll get some blankets and stuff for the couch.”

Accepting the clothes, Bucky nods wordlessly. He makes no move towards changing into them, and Steve realises that he should probably give Bucky some privacy.

“How ‘bout you go change in there?” Steve suggests, gesturing towards the bathroom. “I can get the couch ready, and we can both get some sleep.”

Relief has Steve almost sagging where he stands. He keeps his stare fixed firmly ahead of him as Bucky shuts the bathroom door behind him. Discomfort shivers down his spine. Shit, he hadn’t wanted to stare, but with the way he was pointedly  _ not  _ staring, he was probably being just as obvious.

_ Damn, damn, damn. _

_ Get your head outta your ass, Rogers _ , he chides himself. Shaking off his disquiet, he busies himself with readying the couch. He’s just wrestling with the blanket when Bucky emerges from the bathroom.

Steve thinks he deserves a goddamn medal for not cracking up laughing then and there.

But when he notices the way Bucky’s holding his left arm, clearly still hiding it, that kills all thoughts of laughter. Steve presses his lips together.

“So, uh, you should be good for tonight. Call me if you need anything, okay?” 

The fact that Bucky just nods rather than giving a verbal response isn’t reassuring, but Steve takes his word for it. “Okay, well… good night.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Smoke. Bucky can smell smoke. It’s thick in the air, choking him, making it hard for him to see. _

_ He’s shouting. His throat’s hurting, and yet he isn’t loud enough. He needs to warn them, they’re coming. _

_ They’re coming. _

_ They’re  _ here.

“Bucky! Bucky, wake up!”

Jolting awake, for a terrifying second, Bucky can’t move. His arms are pinned to his sides, and he’s in an unfamiliar room. His breathing is harsh and loud and does nothing to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

Slowly, cautiously, a thin face with wide blue eyes enters Bucky’s line of vision. The face is pale, cheek bones jutting out against his skin. It takes Bucky a moment to recognise him. And it’s then that shame crashes through him. 

_ Oh, God.  _ A perfect stranger had seen him flailing around like a fuckin’ fish, had no doubt heard him screaming. He can feel a flush creeping across his face. 

“You've gotten tangled in the sheets,” Steve says slowly. “I'm gonna help you, okay? I need you to not--” He swallows nervously. “Not to freak out. Okay?”

“Okay.” His voice comes out in a croak, further embarrassing him. Feeling like a child, Bucky holds still as Steve gently unravels him. 

Neither of them speak, awkward now, and Steve hovers uncertainly. It's tempting to snap at him, but he forces it down. It's not Steve’s fault he's all fucked up. 

_ I just gotta keep remindin’ myself of that. _

Without a word, Bucky clambers off the couch, the too-small clothes straining against the width of his shoulders. He's very conscious of his arm, despite the way Steve is determinedly not looking at it. 

“SHIELD sponsored it,” Bucky says abruptly. The other man gives him a blank look, and Bucky feels like an idiot--the fuck does Steve care about his arm?-- but he presses on. He doesn't even fuckin’ know why. “The arm,” he says. “It's developmental technology. Consolation prize after the military felt shitty ‘bout a couple of their boys gettin’ ‘emselves blown up.”

Now that Bucky had addressed the elephant in the room, Steve seems more comfortable looking openly at the metal arm. 

“It's… kinda amazing,” Steve tells him earnestly. “I-I mean, can you… can you  _ feel  _ anything?”

“Nothing.” The word isn't meant to come out as bleak as it does, and Steve lowers his chin slightly. That hated melancholy descends over Bucky again, making his throat feel thick. 

“Well, it's almost time for me to be gettin’ ready for work soon,” Steve says in an upbeat voice. “You wanna shower or whatever, and I can put the coffee on.”

Bucky doesn't believe him. Hell, the sun’s only just starting to peel through the gaps in the curtains. But he appreciates the chance to make an escape. 

Padding towards the bathroom, Bucky spared a moment to be grateful that he can get out of Rogers’ clothes. He stays in the bathroom for a few minutes, just sitting on the edge of the tub. Natasha and Clint were probably furious with him, and the last thing he feels like dealing with right now is either of them barking at him for taking off. But putting it off for any longer is a dick move, and he's pulled enough of those since getting home. 

He brings the phone to his ear, nibbling anxiously at his lower lip. 

“Hello?” Natasha answers calmly. It's enough to have Bucky wincing. He's in  _ such _ deep shit. 

“Hey, Nat,” he says lamely. 

“Is there a reason you're calling at such an ungodly hour of the morning?” she asks, even though Bucky know’s she's probably already gone for a run and had breakfast by now. 

_ This is gonna involve some serious grovelling.  _

“I'm sorry,” he says, wanting to get it out of the way. “I… I fucked up.”  _ Again,  _ he adds silently. 

“You're lucky this Steve guy’s decent, ‘cause otherwise I'd rip your balls off and use ‘em as earrings.”

“What?”

“He works with Clint,” Natasha explains impatiently. “He texted to say that you were safe and not lying in a ditch somewhere. Although--” And now that polite tone slips to reveal something darker, “--if you ever pull that shit again, I'll kill you myself. You better be home before the kids have to leave for school.”

Natasha hangs up before he can even think to argue. 

_ Well, not like she's wrong _ , Bucky grumbles to himself.  _ Just don't ‘preciate being talked to like I'm a child.  _

Taking a moment to change into the clothes Steve had thoughtfully arranged across the towel railing, Bucky can't help but scowl. His clothes weren't the only thing the little creep had hung out to dry. 

_ You're being ridiculous,  _ the rational part of his brain reminds him. 

_ Probably.  _ But that doesn't change anything. He hates feeling indebted to anyone, and Steve had rocked the knight-in-shining-armor thing well enough that even Nat thinks he's decent despite never having met him. 

He stomps out of the bathroom, and the first thing he hears is a loud, hacking cough.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Spotting Steve on the couch, Bucky draws up short. Now that he's  _ awake _ , he can see that Steve’s the same bleak colour as the washed out grey shirt he's wearing. 

More coughing, and then a gasping breath. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks, more sharply than he intended. 

“Fine,” Steve wheezes. 

“Uh-huh.” A sudden thought occurs to him. Bucky puts Steve’s difficulty taking the stairs together with his current state and the rain last night. “Are you sick?” His voice is accusing. 

Bright blue eyes meet his, and Steve manages to get enough air to mutter, “Ungrateful jackass.”

Struggling off the couch, Steve shuffles his way across the living room to the kitchen. He ignores Bucky’s incredulous stare, and starts mucking about with a pair of mugs. 

“Thought I still had some coffee lyin’ ‘round here, but it looks like I'm all out. If you're havin’ anything, it's gonna have to be tea.”

He sounds so completely unruffled, while mentally Bucky’s flailing. Nat wants to castrate him; Clint’s sure to be pissed that Bucky had upset Nat; his kids don't really seem to like him, and who can fuckin’ blame ‘em. 

And, in the midst of it all, there stands Steve Rogers, so infuriatingly calm. 

_ Who the hell even drinks tea? _

Bucky forces a deep breath. He was a soldier. It'd once been his job to protect people. And, since Steve Rogers clearly doesn't have the faintest sense of self-preservation, Bucky’s going to have to help him out here. 

“Are you outta your mind?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Why are the pretty ones always such assholes? _

It's a question for the ages.

He goes about preparing the tea, the familiar action soothing. If he turns his mostly deaf ear to Bucky, and just kinda squints, he can pretend that he's alone in his kitchen. 

Apparently being ignored doesn't go over well with his guest. The pushy bastard ducks his head down to meet Steve’s gaze. 

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

“Not really,” Steve admits candidly. 

The huffy look on Bucky’s face is kinda cute, Steve notices. That's an upside to this whole mess. 

_ Maybe I can keep my eyes open while he's talking.  _

“You can’t just invite a stranger into your apartment,” Bucky says loudly. “I could’ve been an axe murderer for all you friggin’ know.”

That’s an excellent point. And one that both Sam and Peggy would be sure to make if they ever caught wind of what he’d done.

_ Yeah, that’s a conversation I can do without having _ , Steve muses to himself.

“And now, having actually managed to survive the night,” Bucky continues determinedly, “you decide to make said stranger breakfast.”

“It’s not breakfast, it’s tea,” Steve corrects. “Here, drink yours.” He pushes one of the mugs into Bucky’s hands. His fingers brush against cool metal by mistake.

Bucky glares down at the mug. It looks like he’s struggling to decide if he should keep up the lecture or take a sip. He settles for a compromise, taking a cautious whiff of the liquid before grimacing.

“Ginger?” he asks, nose wrinkled. 

He doesn’t quite manage to keep the surprise off his face that Bucky recognises the smell, and Bucky gives him a smug look.

“My Ma used to give it to me when I got the flu,” Bucky tells him. Then, his grey blue eyes narrow. “You are sick.”

Lips twitching at Bucky’s tone--a mix between vindication and concern--Steve takes a sip of his tea. He settles himself onto the couch, and pulls out his phone, logging onto the New York Times’ website.

“It’s helps with my asthma,” Steve says finally. And while it  _ is  _ a part of his normal morning routine, Steve can’t deny--to himself, at least--that his chest does feel a lot tighter than usual.

But he’ll be fine. He always is.

“So you tryna cough up a lung just now, that’s all just part of the asthma?” Bucky asks skeptically. 

“You’re nosy,” Steve says instead of answering. He’s moved on to the arts section, reading an article about some controversy surrounding a bust of Picasso. 

“An’ you’re an evasive little shit,” Bucky grumbles under his breath. He takes a seat beside Steve on the couch, keeping a healthy distance between them. For a few minutes, neither of them speak, each lost in their own heads and sipping their tea.

“I’m sorry for wakin’ you.”

Steve looks over at Bucky sharply. His shoulders are hunched up, and he’s staring at the patch of carpet between his bare feet. It takes Steve a moment to respond.

He doesn’t want to imagine the kinds of things Bucky has seen to make him scream like that.

“You didn’t wake me,” he lies. Bucky gives him an incredulous look, and fair enough. More than one person has told that he’s a terrible liar. Still, he continues blithely, “I usually get up to go for a run.”

It takes a second, but then Bucky’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile. They grin at each other before Bucky seems to catch himself. He clears his throat, and turns back to his tea. 

Not long after that, Bucky leaves with a quiet, “Thanks for, uh… Y’know,” before shutting the door quietly behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky stands in front of the front door of the house, rocking on his heels. He feels like a teenager again, trying to sneak into the house without having his parents seeing him. 

He doesn’t remember having that same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_ Don’t be a pussy. _

Steeling himself, Bucky gets his keys out of his pockets, and unlocks the door. A part of him is hoping that he’ll manage to make it to the guest room before anyone can spot him, but he’s not that lucky.

“Doin’ the walk of shame, huh?” Clint’s sitting in the living room floor, his back against the couch. The bite of anger is absent from his tone, and it makes Bucky feel even worse. Yelling, ultimatums, guilt trips, he can handle.

The tired concern that had etched its way onto his friend’s face makes him wish that the floor would open up and swallow him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I-I…” God, what can he say that doesn’t sound like excuses? 

“Hey, man, it’s okay. I mean, so long as you’re okay. Are you okay?” Clint’s babbling, and it almost makes him smile. But he doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s home--if that’s what this is--so that’s something, at least. Physically, Bucky isn’t any worse off than when he left the house yesterday.

“Nat’s pissed at me,” he says instead.

“No, Nat was  _ scared _ for you,” Clint corrects. “I know it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes, ‘specially when she’s worried, but…” Here he hesitates for a moment before adding, “She still cares about you, y’know?”

Once again, Bucky doesn’t know how to respond. Even though things had initially been awkward when Bucky had first moved in with Natasha, Clint and the kids, he and Clint had never been hostile towards each other. Bucky couldn’t think of anyone else who’d have taken the situation in stride the way Clint did, and he’s grateful for it. 

But he can hear a faint note of strain beneath Clint’s reassuring words, and it makes his stomach clench in guilt.

“I’m not saying I think she wants to run off and have your babies. Again. But you’re an important part of her life. So, yeah, she was worried about you. And if you scare her like that again, I can almost guarantee that she’ll rip your balls off.”

He laughs before he can stop himself. It’s a tight sound, but genuine, and Bucky can feel himself relaxing a degree. 

Opening his mouth to thank the other man, Bucky interrupted by a loud, high pitched voice. 

“Daddy!” 

Wanda appears in the living room, and then, before Bucky even has a chance to brace himself, she's launching herself at him. Spindly arms come around his waist and squeeze him tightly. 

“We were worried ‘bout you,” she says against his midriff, the words slightly muffled. 

A lump of emotion rises up in his throat, and he has to force it down. He gently returns the embrace, careful not to squeeze her too tightly with the metal arm. 

“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.”

She pulls back slightly, and hits him with a small fist. 

“Where were you?” she demands. 

Even though both she and Pietro had inherited Bucky’s eyes, Wanda got the same look that Nat got whenever she was pissed. It makes him proud, even with her glaring up at him. 

“I, uh… I went for a walk,” he says lamely. It's nowhere near enough, but he doesn't know how to explain it. Wanda makes a little noise of disbelief-- _ God, she’s Natasha through and through _ \--but gives him another hug.

“Where's your brother?” Bucky asks after a minute. 

“Mama’s talkin’ to him,” she replies, her mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “He was real upset you didn't come home last night.”

“I'll go get him,” Clint offers. He'd been watching them with a slightly melancholy look in his eye, and Bucky suspects this is just his way of getting some breathing room. Guilt niggles at him. 

“Thanks, man,” Bucky murmurs. It's nowhere near enough, but he hopes that Clint knows he means it. 

“So, I hear someone's the best in her math and science class,” Bucky says when they're alone. 

Expression immediately brightening, Wanda straightens up a little. 

“Uh-huh,” she says proudly. “They've even got me doing fifth grader work.” 

“Holy shit!” Bucky grins down at her. “You must get all the smarts from your mom, ‘cause that sure never happened to me at school.”

Wanda’s just about bouncing in glee when Natasha walks in, Pietro following closely behind her. It's obvious that the kid had been crying, and his usually rosy cheeks are pale. Seeing her brother, Wanda immediately falls still, her own little face worried. 

_ I did that _ . 

_ Jesus, I gotta get my act together.  _

“Hey, kiddo,” Bucky says softly when Pietro continues to hide behind Natasha. It takes a gentle nudge from Nat to get Pietro moving. He shuffles forward slowly--completely at odds with the way he usually races headlong into everything--and comes to a halt an arm’s length away from Bucky. Pietro won’t look at him.

Getting down onto his haunches, Bucky ducks his head to meet Pietro’s gaze. “I’m real sorry, Pietro.” The kid’s head snaps up immediately. “I’ve been fuckin’ up a lot lately, but I’m gonna be better, okay?” 

“Dad, I-I’m sorry ‘bout the-the...”

“The origami?” Bucky smiles gently at his son. “It’s okay. And you weren’t wrong. Think you can fold somethin’ else for me?”

That bright smile appears suddenly, and Pietro closes the distance between them, almost knocking Bucky back onto his ass. Struggling to keep his balance, Bucky grins up at Natasha as Pietro squeezes him tightly around his neck. She gives him a faint smile in return.

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” she says briskly. “It’s time for school. Wanda, your lunch is on the kitchen counter. Pietro, don’t forget the potatoes for your science project.”

“Potatoes for a science project?” Bucky repeats curiously. 

Nat gives him a look, but waits until the kids have hurried off to do as they’d been told.

“I’m not going to ask you not to do that again,” she says quietly. “But when--” She clears her throat, starts again. “If it ever does happen, I need you to check your phone when you’re feeling yourself again.  _ As soon as  _ you feel like yourself again. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Nat, I’ll… I’ll try.”

She releases a shaky breath before giving him a sharp nod. “Go shower,” Natasha tosses over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ No good deed goes unpunished. _

That’s what they say, right? Although, Steve’s not entirely sure who  _ they _ are in this particular instance. 

_ Gonna have to ask Sam. _

Steve’s aware that his thoughts are a little… all over the place. But that’s usually what happens when he takes cough syrup. Stuff sends him for a loop. But the worst part is that the stuff hadn’t even friggin’ helped. He’s still coughing. 

_ Tasted nice, though. _

He snorts a laugh before he can stop himself; almost immediately, the coughing begins again, interrupting Principal Fury where he’s congratulating them on the success of last night.

“You alright there, Rogers?” Nick asks, eyebrows raised.

“Fine,” he manages to wheeze. On either side of him, both Peggy and Sam are frowning. 

“Barks like a rottweiler,” Tony says helpfully from across the room.

“My family back home tends to try a more homo--” Thor pauses as he struggles to find the word he’s looking for. “--natural remedies. Elderberry mixed with--”

“Enough,” Nick interrupts loudly. “Rogers says he’s okay, so he’s okay. Let’s get back to business.”

Steve feels a rush of gratitude towards  the gruff headmaster. Being at the centre of attention, with all the other teachers staring at him, is about as uncomfortable as the way the air doesn’t seem to be reaching his lungs.

_ Alright, maybe the whole not breathing thing is a  _ little _ worse. _

They’ve move on to the topic of parking spaces--Tony keeps taking Frau Heinz's just to hear her bellowing at him in German--when Steve feels an instinctive awareness crawling across his skin. He glances up to find Clint watching him intently.

More discomfort. Steve drops his gaze to his lap, breathing still laboured. He hadn’t expected this to be so awkward. Or maybe it’s not the situation that’s awkward, just him.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

It’s impossible for Steve to hold back his next caugh. He can feel himself shuddering, and then Peggy lets out a little huff.

“Come on,” she mutters to him. To Nick, she says, “Excuse me, sir.”

Not giving Steve a chance to argue, Peg grabs his arm in a firm grip--she’s insanely strong for such a little thing--and drags him out of the staffroom. He can feel a flush creeping along his cheeks, although he’s not sure if that’s from the coughing or embarrassment.

“What happened?” Peggy frets once they’re outside. “You were fine last night.” She reaches up to his forehead to check his temperature, and Steve ducks the touch. He already feels a little like a kid who’d been dragged out of class by his mom. 

_ I can’t believe I just put Peg in the mom zone. _

Yeah, that’s not something he’ll ever tell her about.

“Felicia decided it was time to play catch outside the apartment at two in the morning,” Steve mutters in answer to her question.

“Oh, good God,” Peggy mutters in her crisp British accent. Her hands rest on her hips, and her expression is the picture of exasperation. “You went chasing your cat in the middle of the bloody night? Steven Grant Rogers, it was  _ raining _ last night!”

He shushes her before he can think better of it, thinking that her scolding voice will carry back into the staffroom. 

Wrong thing to do.

Spine straightening, Peggy is nothing short of terrifying. Steve’s only just taller than Peggy, but the force of her irritation is seems to give her this  _ presence _ . He has the strangest urge to draw her as some kind of avenging goddess.

“Did you just  _ shush _ me?”

“No, I just--Yeah, but… I’m sorry.” Steve hangs his head for a moment before soldiering on. “But I’m  _ fine _ ,” he stresses. “Really. I just need to make some tea, and I’ll be fine.”

Peggy looks at him dubiously. The fleeting anger is gone from her expression, leaving concern in its place.

“I just wish you’d take better care of yourself. You’re quite dear to me.”

For a second, Steve has to blink really hard as emotion swells up inside him, seeming to take up all the space between his heart and lungs. He shouldn’t get like this. It’s nothing really, something any friend would say. It was just after his Ma passed... And then everything with Sharon had fallen apart… 

It feels good to be mean something to someone.

“Thanks, Peg,” he finally manages. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

She gives him a fond smile, then leans down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I have to get ready for class now, but don’t you strain yourself, alright? Be sure to drink plenty of tea, and maybe go ask Thor about what he was saying about elderberrys.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky quits his job.

After the kids had gone to school, and Clint and Nat had left for work, Bucky had had a lot of time to think. Reflecting on his fuck ups wasn’t ever something he’d enjoyed doing, but he knows he can’t just keep apologising, and then do the same thing all over again. He needs to step up.

He needs to set an example to his kids.

And while Bucky might not be able to stop the nightmares and going  _ away  _ in his head, he can stop coming home drunk.

Standing outside the Amadeus, Bucky feels like he’s seeing it for the first time. There’s a layer of grime, not so much in the surrounding, but in the general  _ feel  _ of the bar. It feels like the kind of place where people go to give up. 

It makes him ashamed of himself.

_ I can do better than this. _

What an amazing thought.

Bucky straightens his shoulders, and walks into the bar. It’s dimly lit, with a few people scattered across the room. Some are laughing and playing pool, while others brood silently into their drinks.

“Hey, man, there you are!” Rumlow’s voice booms. He’s standing behind the bar, talking with a couple of big, beefy guys Bucky doesn’t recognise. They give Bucky an appraising look before exchanging a few brief words with Rumlow. 

He really doesn’t feel like dealing with the bartender right now--he’d come to talk to Pierce--but Rumlow waves him over insistently.  

“C’mon, man, sit down. We need to get you caught up, huh?” He doesn’t wait for Bucky’s response, just slams down a shot glass and starts pouring. 

“Uh, thanks, but it’s a little early for me.”

That earns him an amused look. 

“Since when?” Rumlow scoffs. Again, any reply Bucky may have made is tromped down when Rumlow continues, “Those guys who just left are buddies of mine. They’re bodyguards, work for some heavy hitters.”

Bucky resigns himself to listening to Rumlow running his mouth for the next few minutes. Rather than taking a sip of his drink, he instead runs his fingers over the rim of the glass. Maybe if he concentrates on that, he’ll be able to tune out Rumlow’s voice.

“... so I wanted to know if you were interested?”

“Huh?” He looks up blankly.

Irritation flashes across Rumlow’s face; he doesn’t like being ignored.

“I asked if you wanted to join STRIKE. Most of the guys are ex-military. You’d fit right in.”

“Uh, thanks,” Bucky says. He’s not sure that’s a good thing. “But I was actually thinking about goin’ to vocational school.”

Bucky pauses as he thinks about his words. He hadn’t realised until just now that he had actually been thinking about it. 

There’s been a moment of silence as Rumlow stares at him in disbelief. It doesn’t last long before Rumlow bursts out laughing.

“You wanna go to  _ school _ ?” he snorts. “That’s a good one, pal. Look, lemme give you my guy’s number.” Rumlow grabs a pen and a napkin from under the bar, and scribbles down a phone number with the name Chase scrawled beneath it. “Give him a call when you’ve pulled your head outta your ass.” 

He slides the napkin across the bar, and then snatches up Bucky’s glass. Holding his stare challengingly, Rumlow downs the shot, and then 

heads into a back room.

Anger makes Bucky’s head spin. Grinding his teeth, he has to concentrate on his breathing for a few minutes; slowly, in and out. 

“You look like you’re having a bad day.” 

“Had better,” Bucky agrees. He looks up to find Alexander Pierce giving him a genial smile that always comes off as slightly false. Bucky forces down the slight prick of discomfort.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,” Pierce says ruefully. “I got tied up in a phone call. Some people just don't know when you hang up, you know?”

“Nah, it's cool,” Bucky replies, waving the apology off. “I just… I guess there's no real good way of saying this, but uh… I have to quit.”

“Quit?” Pierce echoes. His eyebrows have shot up. “But why? I thought Brock had approached you about joining STRIKE.”

Bucky keeps his expression carefully neutral. He hadn't realised Pierce was in on that whole body guard thing too. 

“Thank you for the offer,” Bucky says politely. “But I'm planning on doin’ some vocational training.”

“Really? Doing what?” Pierce’s tone is still has that false ring to it as he tries to smile. 

“Workin’ on cars.”

“Your turning me down to be a grease monkey?” And there he is, that part of Pierce that he's so careful to hide. 

“Yeah. I think so.” It feels right, and Bucky suddenly grin, a lightness spreading through him suddenly. “It was good working for you,” he tells Pierce, holding out his hand. 

After a brief hesitation, Pierce shakes his hand. He squeezes too hard, but Bucky doesn't flinch. Aware of the older man’s gaze resting between his shoulderblades, Bucky is sure to swagger out of there with as much confidence as he can manage. 

Things were going to get better. He was going to make sure of it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve has to leave by lunchtime. His cough has him sweating and fighting for breath. Him almost passing out in front of the fourth graders is the final straw. Wanda had run out of class to fetch the school nurse, Mr Jarvis, to come check him out. 

It's the first time Steve had seen Jarvis out of the staff room. He was rarely seen outside the sickbay since he apparently took his duties pretty seriously.

Peering into that heavily wrinkled face, it's impossible to miss the disapproval in Jarvis’ expression.

“You need to see a doctor,” Jarvis tells him flatly. 

“D’you know how much it costs to go to the hospital?” Steve manages to wheeze. 

“About as much as it costs to go to the funeral home, I expect,” Jarvis shoots back.

The laugh that escapes Steve leads to another coughing fit. Jarvis does a weird thing where he looks like he's torn between concern and vindication. 

“Principal Fury will not be pleased if you drop dead on school grounds. It could lead to a costly lawsuit.”

“No family to do that,” Steve points out. It must have come out more melancholy than he'd intended because Jarvis now looks sympathetic. 

“Mr Rogers, please, I must insist that you go home at the very least.”

“No need to insist, Jarvis, I'm here.”

_ Oh, for fuck’s sake.  _

Looking up, Steve sees Sam. His friend is glaring at him, and Steve slumps down in his seat defeatedly. 

“I'll drive him home. Tie him to his bed if I gotta,” Sam continues with a pointed look at Steve.  

“You're gonna have to buy me dinner first,” Steve grumbles. 

Jarvis gives him a mildly alarmed look, and apparently decides that that is where his work ends. Muttering a goodbye, he hastily leaves the room.

Left alone in his classroom with Sam, Steve starts to say something before the other man cuts him off. 

“Save your air for breathin’. ‘Cause I ain't givin’ you mouth to mouth.”

“But you'll tie me up?” Steve smirks instead of pointing out that he has his inhaler in his pocket. “Sounds like you got some commitment issues there, pal.”

The look on Sam’s face almost makes up for the embarrassment of having to be escorted off the premises. 

When they get to Steve’s place, the first thing they see is Felicia. Letting out a loud meow, she immediately winds herself around Steve’s ankles before leading the way to her food bowl. She gives him an expectant look. 

But as Steve moves into the kitchen to do as he's told, Sam stops him with a loud  _ ahem.  _

“What the hell are you doin’?”

Looking between Felicia and Sam, Steve can't stop the confused pucker between his eyebrows. 

“Well, I was planning on feeding my cat…”

“Get in bed, man. I'll do it.” Sam waves Steve out of the kitchen, earning himself a distrustful hiss from Felicia. He pulls a face at her. 

“Goddamn furball,” Sam complains. “I won't be surprised to come here tomorrow to find she's sat on your chest and killed ya.”

“I can't believe I'm friends with a cat hater,” Steve says. He shuffles across his apartment to go to his bedroom. The bed’s a mess of tangled sheets since he hadn't had the energy to make it after his unexpected wake up call. 

His movements are like those of an old man as he toes his shoes off and dresses in a baggy tshirt and sweats. Finally emerging from the bedroom, he finds Sam still in the kitchen. Riffling through the cupboards, he can make out the sounds of his friend’s muttering. 

“No damn chicken soup, but you got enough cat food to get that thing through a nuclear winter.”

“Could eat cat food if I had to.” Now that he's home, and relaxed a little, Steve can feel that his body is actually aching. He'd been ignoring it while he'd been at work. Sinking down onto the couch, Steve lets out another cough. 

Sam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Don’t tempt me,” before heaving an enormous sigh. 

“I don’t know what to give you,” he says, conceding defeat.

“There’s some ginger tea in--”

“That’s not food,” Sam points out. “And if you lose anymore weight, it won’t take much more than a strong wind to blow you over. I need you to eat something.”

“Who knew you were such a mother hen?” Steve teases.

“Oh, ha ha. Just ‘cause I’ve got a budgie instead of one of those things--” He nods at Felicia. “--you think it’s okay to be making bird jokes.”

“Tell you what,” Steve says, trying hard not to laugh. “I’ll let you order me some chicken soup from the Chinese place down the road. That okay?”

“Fine.” He points a threatening finger at Steve. “But I’m taking you shopping this weekend. We’re gonna buy you some real food.”

After making the phone call down to the restaurant and some more strict instructions not to strain himself, Sam leaves to head back to school. Steve falls asleep not long after the delivery guy shows up.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky feels like he can’t breathe.

“Say it again,” the voice next to his ear orders.

“I quit my job.”

A delighted sound escapes Natasha, and she releases the tight hold she’d had around his neck. She’d never been the most demonstrative person, apart from how she is with the kids. But in her excitement, she’s apparently forgotten that she’s not a hugger.

“This is so great,” she says as she steps back.

“You sure? I might be planning on becoming a drug dealer for all you know.”

“So long as you don’t come home high, I don’t give a damn.” But she punches him on the arm, hard. “Don’t become a drug dealer.”

“I’m going to become a doctor,” Wanda says from the kitchen island where she’s doing her homework. Pietro is sitting beside her, reading with a slight furrow between his brows; he looks up when Wanda speaks.

“That’s a great idea,” Natasha replies, leaning her elbows on the other side of the table. “What are you gonna do then?”

“Cure asthma,” she says firmly.

Bucky raises his eyebrows and exchanges an amused look with Natasha. He’d been expecting it to be cancer.

“How come?”

“Because her art teacher passed out in class.” Clint’s coming through the kitchen door, arms laden with plastic containers.

“He did what?” Bucky asks sharply. Maybe too sharply given the circumstances, judging by the look Natasha sends in his direction. But he can’t help it; he’d _known_ that that stubborn jackass had caught a cold.

“It was scary,” Pietro adds in a small voice.

“Is he okay?” Bucky directs the question to Clint while Natasha squeezes Pietro’s hand.

“Sam says that he’s got nothing in there but cat food. _Cat_ food!” If Bucky weren’t worrying about Steve and feeling vaguely guilty, he would’ve laughed at how offended the other man sounded.

“This is the guy who let you sleep on his couch?” Natasha clarifies, although Bucky doubts she’d forgotten.

“That’s the one,” Clint huffs before Bucky can answer. “I always thought he was a smart guy. A little quiet, but…” He shakes his head. “ _Cat food_.”

Deciding to leave Clint to it--he tends to cook when he's stressed--Bucky wonders out of the kitchen. It bothers him, the idea of Rogers being sick because he'd been trying to help Bucky.

He flops down onto his bed, worrying at his bottom lip as he tries to figure out what to do. Doing nothing is out. Bucky doesn't like owing people, and that's not going to change anytime soon. And he's not much of a cook, either.

_But I can play delivery boy._

Yeah, that's what he'll do. He'll drop off whatever Clint’s making, thank Rogers again, and warn the little punk not to do anything stupid like that again.

_Debt repaid._

Pleased with himself, Bucky scoots himself to the edge of the bed to fumble for his laptop. He spends the next couple of hours doing research on vocational schools in the area.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No way.”

“You're being unreasonable.”

Clint aims a glare at Bucky. He's been feeling edgy since the other man got back home after parent’s night. The reason for it makes Clint slightly ashamed, but he does his best to ignore it. He's just glad the kids are getting ready for school so they don't see him like this.

“Why do you even wanna go over there? You barely know the guy,” he growls. Rather than meeting Bucky and Nat’s bemused gazes, Clint rearranges the plastic containers filled with soup, turkey sandwiches, and fresh fruit. He'd already prepared their lunch, so everything was ready.

Only thing that isn't completely together is him.

“I wanna thank him,” Bucky says casually.

“What, you didn't already?” Clint barks.

“Can you give us a minute, James?” Natasha interjects before Bucky can snap back. She gives Bucky a look, flicking her eyes at the door.

Muttering irritably under his breath, Bucky stalks out of the room. Clint and Natasha are quiet for a second; they hear Bucky asking the kids if they've made their beds.

“What's going on?” Natasha asks softly.

“Nothin’,” Clint answers. His voice is terse, and he hates it. He doesn't wanna fight with Nat.

“Doesn't seem like nothing.” Natasha moves closer to him, gently laying her hand over his to still his anxious movements.

“It's stupid.” The anger drains out of him, and he hangs his head tiredly. Natasha doesn't say anything, just waits quietly for him to start talking. It never fails to amaze Clint how well she knows him.

Still, that doesn't mean he wants to share this particular burden with her. Being jealous of the bond between Nat and her ex doesn't just make him a shitty husband, but a shitty friend too.

With a forced smile, Clint brings her hand to his lips and presses a kiss into her palm.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs.

“Clint, I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to talk to me.”

Pulling away reluctantly, Clint grabs a piece of paper to write down the address Sam had given him yesterday. “Just in case Bucky doesn't remember where the place is,” he explains. “I gotta get to work, okay?”

She watches him unhappily as he stacks the containers once again before grabbing Wanda and Pietro’s lunchboxes.

“Alright, monkies, time for school!” Clint calls up the stairs.

As they climb into the car, their usual chatter filling the space, Clint feels something in him easing slightly. Releasing a few breath, he reverses out of the garage, and starts a highly competitive game of eye spy.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Ugh._

That’s the first thing that goes through Steve’s head when he wakes up. The night before had been hellish. Exhausted, he’d tried to sleep, but his coughing had kept him up, which only made him more tired. Finally, just as the sun was coming up, Steve had sunk into a restless sleep.

And now, after what feels like only a few minutes, somebody’s woken him up again. With his arms feeling like lead, Steve fumbles for his cell phone; maybe he’d missed a call from Peggy or Sam while he’d been asleep.

Nope. Just a couple of texts from Peg reminding him to keep hydrated and recommending that he suck on an ice cube from time to time ease his sore throat.

The knocking comes again, louder this time.

Groaning into his pillow, Steve considers letting whoever it is just stand out there until they get the goddamn message.

But his conscience won’t let him.

He gets out of bed, resting his weight on shaky legs. It takes more effort than it should to get to the door, and by that time, whoever’s looking for him is knocking on the door so loudly, the sound can probably be heard down in the basement.

“What?” Steve snaps as he swings the door open. Sadly, given the way he’d been hacking last night, his voice doesn’t come out as strong as he would’ve liked.

Things get even worse when he sees who’s standing on his doorstep.

“You look like hell,” Bucky Barnes says flatly.

Steve’s reaction is to try to shut the door in his face. While he’s willing to admit that this isn’t his finest hour, he can’t bring himself to care. There is _no way_ he’s going to let Bucky see him like this without some kind of protest.

“C’mon, man, don’t be stupid,” Bucky chides with his foot in the doorway. “You shouldn’t be foolin’ around like this when you’re sick.”

That Bucky thinks he’s _foolin’ around_ when he’s actually using his full strength--such as it is--makes Steve push against the door even harder.

“Cut it out,” Bucky says after another few seconds, his voice sharp. “You make me drop this food, Clint’s gonna have my ass.”

The words give him pause, and that’s enough for Bucky to shoulder his way in. Pulling a face behind his back, Steve shuts the door.

“I should call the cops,” Steve grumbles, but he’s too tired to sound as heated as he would want. Hobbling into the living room, he drops down onto the couch beside Felicia. She raises her little face up to him and purrs loudly.

Even as tired as he is, Steve can’t help but smile. He reaches to tickle her behind her ears and under her chin. It’s soothing, feeling her soft fur beneath his fingers, and it takes him a moment to realise that Bucky has stopped talking.

_Has he left?_

That’s not disappointing. At all. Because Steve isn’t an idiot.

Only he must be, because when he spots Bucky watching him and Felicia, Steve feels a flicker of relief.

_Just ‘cause he’s got food._

“Are you sure you should be cuddling that thing?” Bucky asks, eyebrows raised, as Felicia crawls onto Steve’s lap. Her purring has intensified, making her sound like a fluffy lawnmower.

“Why is everyone on me about her?” Steve asks indignantly. He pulls Felicia in closer to him, and she gives an ill-tempered meow before settling.

Releasing an exasperated huff, Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins unpacking the bag he’d been carrying. There’s container after container of what appears to be… Steve squints… soup? And possibly sandwiches.

Steve grins, touched that Clint had thought of him. But also… he was kinda embarrassed. He and Clint had talked a couple times--mostly to make fun of Tony--but they don’t really _know_ each other.

“He was worried you were gonna be eating cat food,” Bucky tells him after a few seconds of quiet. “And I can see why.” He’s poked his head into one of Steve’s cupboards, eying the many tins of food Steve had stocked up on.

“They were on sale,” Steve says defensively. Before he can say anything else, though, he starts coughing. It shakes his whole body, and makes his head spin as he struggles for air. Felicia quickly hops off his lap, not liking the noise he makes. Meanwhile, Bucky hurries over, grabbing Steve by the shoulders and helping him sit upright when the coughing doesn't stop.

“What can I do?” He sounds somewhat frantic.

“In-In--” Steve can’t breathe, and he’s beginning to panic. His lungs are starting to burn.

“Inhaler?” Bucky asks. Steve manages a small nod. “Okay, okay, where is it? Steve, where’s your inhaler?”

Strangely enough, Bucky’s fearful tone manages to calm Steve down. He tries for one gasp of air before he manages to force out a single word.

“Be--bedroom.”

Bucky tears away, almost tripping over Felicia in his haste. Vaguely, Steve can hear the other man rummaging around in his room. There are black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.

“Here, take it.”

Feeling Bucky shoving something into his hands, Steve shakily brings the inhaler to his mouth. He avoids meeting Bucky’s gaze as he takes one puff… and then another.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re going to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

Bucky glares over at Steve, who’s sharp blue eyes meet his, clearly unimpressed. It seems ridiculous that the colour should be so bright when the rest of his face is so damn pale, but Bucky pushes the thought aside.

He’s determined to make Steve see reason.

“Look,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “You’re sick. Just let me drive you down to the hospital, let ‘em check you out. If everything’s okay, I’ll bring you back home, and you can throw out all the I-told-you-so’s you want.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve huffs. He’s still on the couch, that godforsaken cat who knows where, and if that obstinate look on his face is any indication, Bucky is going to literally have to carry him out of the apartment.

“Well… can’t you stay with family and let ‘em take care of you?”

It’s hard for Bucky to understand why he’s pushing this. Sure, Steve had helped Bucky out the other day, but Bucky was making it up to him by bringing the food Clint had made. Then, when Steve’s thin form had been wracked with coughs, Bucky had been on hand to get the guy his inhaler.

But what if he hadn’t been? The thought makes something in his stomach twist uneasily.

“I don’t have family,” Steve says quietly, dragging Bucky out of his thoughts. His chin is up, as though daring Bucky to feel sorry for him.

Bucky likes this guy, albeit somewhat unwillingly.

Shaking his head a little, Bucky turns away so Steve doesn’t see the faint smile on his face. He makes his way to Steve’s bedroom--grin widening at the grumbled, “Make yourself at home.”--and pulls the duvet off the bed. He snags a box of tissues too.

“C’mon, tough guy, lean forward.”

“What are you doin’?” Steve asks suspiciously.

“Trying to keep your dumbass from freezing. Lean forward.”

“I’m not a kid,” Steve tells him, bristling visibly.

“Nope,” Bucky agrees.

That seems to take the starch out of Steve. His brows furrow, but he sits forward slowly, allowing Bucky to drape the blanket around him. Bucky can’t help but notice that the other man’s cheeks are turning red.

For some reason, Bucky struggles to look away, transfixed by the soft colour. When he realises that he’s been standing in front of Steve for a few seconds too long, Bucky clears his throat. Working to keep his touch impersonal, he tucks the ends of the duvet around Steve to keep him warm. He then drops down on the opposite end of the couch, and snatches up the remote.

“So, what’s good on TV?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve is no stranger to surrealism, both in terms of art and, sometimes, the things that went on around him. They could be good or bad, or a bit of both. For example, the good had been on that day in seventh grade when Sam had picked him first to be on his baseball team during PE. Or when Sharon had said agreed to go out with him. Bad had been that time he’d had an asthma attack in the middle of a crowded mall after he’d forgotten his inhaler at home.

Bad had been when his Ma had died.

He swallows hard when the memory makes it hard to breathe. That had been the worst. For months, Steve had kept hoping that he’d be able to pick up the phone and hear her voice, or head over to the apartment they used to share before he’d gone to college and endure her fussing over how thin he was.

The cat is all he has left of her.

But Bucky being here, in Steve’s apartment, is one of those situations where he isn’t entirely sure if it’s good or bad. What he is sure of, though, is that it’s weird as all hell.

Neither of them talk much. Bucky flips through channels too quickly for Steve to actually _see_ what’s showing, but he’s too tired to bring it up. Instead, he slumps down on his side of the couch, and allows his thoughts to drift.


	8. Chapter 8

boom.

Boom.

_ Boom! _

Bucky comes awake with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He can feel his fingers trembling, his breaths coming unevenly as he fights to come back to the here and now. 

Slowly, Bucky tries to reorient himself. The ceiling above him has faint water marks. Directly in front of him, a man giving an impassioned speech too low to hear on the TV. And beside him...

A head is resting on his left thigh.

Completely oblivious to Bucky’s nightmares, Steve is fast asleep, making faint snuffling noises. It’s so strange to him that Bucky finds himself wanting to reach out, to touch…

But before Bucky can follow through, the loud banging from his dream invades on reality. 

“Steve? Steve, you alright?”

The front door swings open, revealing a tall black man with broad shoulders, his face creased with concern. He comes up short when he sees Bucky. 

“Who the hell are you?” he demands loudly. 

“Uh…” 

Luckily, Bucky is saved from having to come up with an explanation by Steve letting out a groggy sounding, “Sam?”

_ Shit, is this his boyfriend? _

Okay, that would explain the look on the guy’s face. 

Steve’s voice seems to relax this Sam guy slightly, although he still gives Bucky a suspicious look. 

“Just came over to check on you, man. I knocked, but no one was answering,” he says, moving towards the couch. 

With a disgruntled little sound, Steve pushes himself up. The cold against Bucky’s leg is immediate, and he automatically drops his left hand to where Steve had been resting against him, trying to cup a warmth he can't feel. 

“Most people call before coming over,” Steve grumbles. 

“Didn't wanna wake you up.” Sam is smiling, but he's still looking at Bucky. It makes Bucky uncomfortable, and he moves to get up. 

“So, uh, I'll see you around, Rogers. Take care of yourself, huh?”

“You're going?” 

Steve doesn't seem to notice anything strange about the question, but Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. It makes Bucky’s stomach do that weird swooping thing, as though he'd missed a couple of steps going downstairs. He thinks again of that faint flush on Steve’s cheeks earlier. 

The fingers of his right hand seem to tingle, wanting to touch that soft skin. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta…” Bucky doesn't finish, just hurries out the apartment.

When he gets back home, he realises that he'd forgotten his bag. 

_ Shit. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“What was that?”

“He's kinda dramatic,” Steve explains absently. Lying back on the couch, he wriggles around, trying to get comfortable. It’s harder now that he doesn't have anyone to lean on. 

Steve has the distant feeling that that thought’s gonna embarrass him later. 

_ Whatever. Too tired.  _

“Hey, hold up. Rogers, don't you dare sleep on me. We gotta talk about this.”

“I'm sick,” he whines. “I need to _rest_.”

“In a minute. You didn't tell me you were seein’ anybody.”

“‘Cause I'm not.” Steve cracks his eyes open to glare at Sam. The other man’s perched on the edge of the couch, a broad grin stretching across his face. 

“You had your face in his lap.”

“Make it sound dirty,” he huffs, aiming a weak swipe at Sam. “We were sleeping.”

“He seemed wide awake when I got here. Looked like he was gonna play with your hair, or somethin’.”

Steve's heart gives a funny lurch. He's so not going to touch that. 

“How'd you even get in here?” 

“Last time you got sick, you gave me a set of keys, remember?” Steve does recall doing something of the sort, in a vague kind of way. “I was worried that you hadn't eaten.”

“Bucky brought me somethin’.” 

Silence. Steve forces his eyes open again to see that Sam’s smirking at him. 

“He's a friend of Clint’s. Pietro and Wanda’s dad.” No hint of comprehension on Sam’s face. “You don't teach the Barnes kids?”

“Nope.”

Well, that explains why Sam didn't recognise him. 

“Clint made me soup and… stuff. Bucky brought it over as a favour.”

“Uh-huh. Still doesn't explain why he looked so comfy sleeping on your couch.”

“Not like it's the first time,” Steve says without thinking. 

“Say what now?”

_ Oh, crap. _

“You're a gossip.”

“And  _ you're _ blushing.”

“It's not like that,” Steve sighs. He doesn't know what's worse, Sam ribbing him for having a crush, or scolding him for letting a relative stranger into his apartment. Something makes him pause. The memory of Bucky sitting on the curb, hunched up against the rain, suddenly flashes through his brain. 

He has no right to broadcast Bucky’s pain that way. 

Groaning, Steve buries his face in the couch cushions. It doesn't help with his breathing, but at least he doesn't have to look at Sam. 

“I've got a crush.”

Despite his words being muffled, Sam hears him just fine. With a triumphant laugh, Sam pats him on the back with one big hand. 

“Lemme heat up whatever lover boy made you.”

“Clint made it!”

He’s not entirely sure Sam is listening, though.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dinner is a quiet. James had begged off, mumbling something about wanting an early night. He’d seemed unsettled, but Natasha decided not to push. So it’s just her, Clint, and the children sitting around the table. Wanda and Pietro were talking, alternately picking up the threads of each other’s stories, or just speaking over each other.

The warm expression on Clint’s face as he listens, no trace of impatience anywhere, makes her blink fast. 

Once they’re done eating, the kids dutifully take their plates to the kitchen while Clint and Natasha sit together for a quiet moment.

“You okay?”

Natasha looks up to meet Clint’s gaze. “Just thinking that I lucked out when I met you.”

Reaching out, Clint takes her hand, gives her fingers a little squeeze. He knows Natasha isn’t one for sentiment, so when she says something like that, he knows she means it.

“Do you want to talk about what’s eating you?” she tries. “You seemed upset this morning.”

“Help me with the dishes?” Clint asks instead of answering. She sighs, and pushes out of her seat.

They gather the rest of the plates and cutlery, the only sound the faint clink of the dishes.

“It's not that I don't wanna talk about it,” Clint tells her when they're elbow deep in bubbles. “I-I just--” He releases a weary sigh. “I wanna get it straight in my head, y’know?”

She watches him out of the corner of her eye. There's a slump to his shoulders that she's not used to seeing. It makes her feel helpless. 

“But you will will talk to me?” she checks. 

“Soon as I've got it figured out,” Clint assures her. 

Natasha watches him for a moment before smiling. “I kicked ass in court today.”

“Yeah?” His eyes light up, and he nudges her shoulder a little to get her to continue. 

“Almost made the defense attorney cry,” she adds slyly. 

“Okay, let's save the dirty talk for the bedroom, huh? I cook in this kitchen.”

And here's her Clint, teasingly flicking water at her and bumping his hip against hers. Letting his laughter wash over her, Natasha pushes her worries aside. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weekend passes without incident. Steve gets a few texts from some of the teachers at school, and Peggy and Sam come visit him on Sunday morning. 

It's restful. 

Steve's about ready to lose his mind at this point. 

“You sure you're feeling better?” Sam asks over his mug. He'd brought his own coffee along, steadfast as ever to resist Peggy’s attempts to convert him to tea. 

“Healthy as a horse,” Steve says firmly. 

A little scoff of disbelief that Sam doesn't bother to disguise. Peggy, bless her heart, merely gives Steve a fond smile.

“Well, it will be good to have you back. School’s frightfully dull without you.”

“Yeah, we don't gotta worry about people passin’ out ‘cause they ain't takin’ care of ‘emselves.”

Even with her lips pressed tightly together, a giggle escapes Peggy. She sneaks a peak at Sam, and Steve notices that her cheeks are tinged with pink. 

_ What? _

“Has lover boy come over?” Sam asks, changing the subject. 

Steve feels his own face going red. 

“I have a bone to pick with you about that, Steven. Why am I only hearing about this now? And from Sam?”

_ And  _ that  _ is why you should never lie _ , he can practically hear his Ma’s voice telling him.

But he has a feeling that Ma would’ve understood why he’d lied about this. Even though he could already tell that it was just gonna end up being one giant pain in his ass.

Stifling a sigh, Steve manages to give Peg an apologetic look.

“I was gonna tell ya, but it’s all still new. We’re not even really dating.”

“He’s playing coy,” Sam tells Peggy in a conspiratorial whisper.

Steve groans. Flopping down onto the couch between them, he asks, “Why am I friends with you two again?”

“Because if you weren’t friends with us, you’d likely have to put up with Tony Stark,” Peggy answers helpfully.

“Bet Bruce would appreciate it.”

“They really are the last two people I would expect to be friends,” Peg muses. 

For a few more minutes, they wonder aloud at the dynamics of that friendship, and how sometimes they find the economics teacher, Miss Potts, caught up in Tony’s shenanigans.

“I like her. She’s sensible. Also, she has excellent taste in shoes.”

A moment of silence as they all seem to marvel at the state of Miss Potts’ footwear, before Sam abruptly changes the subject again.

“Anybody else hungry? I’m hungry.”

Peggy offers a graceful shrug. “I could eat.”

“Let’s go eat.” Sam gets eagerly to his feet, extending a hand to pull Peg off the couch.

“What about me?” Steve asks, widening his eyes at his friend.

Pretending to think about it for a moment, Sam gives him a shiteating grin. “There’s no way I’m encroaching on your boy’s turf. He’s a scary lookin’ son of a bitch.”

“I hate you.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky doesn't know what the hell he’s doing. Well, technically, he  _ does _ , but he doesn't know  _ why _ he's doing it. Skulking across the street from Steve’s apartment, Bucky’s can't decide if he should go in or not. 

_ There's nothin’ wrong with checking that the guy’s still breathing.  _

Then why the hell is he still standing here?

For days now, he’d been thinking about Steve. Stupid shit, like the colour of his eyes, or the ways his cheeks turned that delicious shade of red that made Bucky want to feel the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers.

And on the one night when Bucky hadn’t woken up in a cold sweat from nightmares, he’d woken half hard and panting from a dream about a lush lips and slender artist’s hands.

It’s fucking embarrassing.

Not because he’d never fucked a dude before. It’s happened a couple of times over the years, when someone caught his eye. Bucky’s an equal opportunity kind of guy.

But what he isn’t used to is having a… a goddamn  _ crush _ .

He’d even caught himself himself thinking about the length of the guy’s eyelashes, for fuck’s sake.

And now, since he’s not pathetic enough, he’s waffling here like some kind of friggin’ teenager who’s too afraid to approach their first crush.

_ Jesus Christ, man, you’ve been to fuckin’ war, and now you’re too scared to talk to some scrawny art teacher? _

The answer to that is apparently a resounding  _ yes _ .

Bucky’s preparing to walk away to stew in his own shame when he hears someone calling his name. 

“Hey, Barnes!”

Automatically, he turns, even though he's pretty sure no one in this neighbourhood knows his name.

Except for Steve. 

Heart leaping into his throat, Bucky turns. The first thing he sees is the teacher; it's only after he's spent an embarrassingly long time staring at him that he notices the two people standing beside him. 

One is a pretty brunette, the other that guy from before; Sam, Bucky thinks his name is. 

They're all staring at him. 

Lifting his hand in an awkward wave, Bucky hesitates before crossing the street. He keeps his left hand buried deep in his pocket, eyes on his feet so he doesn't make a fool of himself tripping over because he's too busy staring at Steve. 

_ See, this is what you get when you act like a creepy stalker.  _

“Hey,” Sam greets him again when he gets close enough. “It's… Bucky, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Accepting the hand that Sam’s holding out, Bucky gives it a quick shake. There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence as Steve’s friends seem to wait for introductions. Only thing is, Steve is pointedly staring into the neighbouring delhi at a row of cabbages. 

The woman lets out an exasperated sigh.

“It seems that if we wait for Steven to introduce us, we’ll be here all day,” she says reprovingly; Steve lets out a little huff, but doesn’t otherwise react. “I’m Peggy, and this is Sam. I understand you met, but I don’t know if names were exchanged.”

“No, not really,” Bucky mumbles. 

“Well, we were just going for lunch. Steve doesn’t do too well being cooped up, and he’s been inside that house for days.”

“Just him and Judge Judy,” Sam agrees.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Steve sounds aggrieved. 

“Does that mean you were just ignoring us when we asked to be introduced to your friend?” Peggy asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning her attention back on Bucky. “Would you like to join us?”

That gets Steve’s attention. He stops his staring contest with the cabbages to give Bucky a look. It’s clear from his expression that he’s trying to send some kind of message, but Bucky has no clue what that might be.

“Uh… okay?”

Steve’s rolls his eyes so far back Bucky can practically see the whites. 

_ Shit. _

But it’s too late for Bucky to change his mind. Peggy steps forward and links her arm through his, and tugs him along beside her. He drags his feet a little but it doesn’t help; she’s pretty strong.

“Come now, I want to know all about you. Tell me, is Bucky short for something?”

It’s going to be a long afternoon.


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in his life, Steve is praying for an asthma attack. Or an allergic reaction. Or  _ anything _ that would get him out of this god awful situation. He and Bucky are sitting side by side, carefully avoiding each other’s gazes while his friends beam at them. 

Peggy and Sam seem to be completely oblivious to his discomfort, peppering Bucky with questions. 

_ What do you do do?  _

_ Where’d you go to school? _

_ Oh, you have children?  _

In Bucky’s defense, he’s doing a pretty good job fielding the questions. He  _ even _ manages to be charming. 

Whenever Bucky answers one of Sam’s questions, Peg looks over at Steve to give him an approving look.

It’s all Steve can do not to roll his eyes.

But then comes the question he’s been dreading that Sam and Peggy have somehow managed to avoid thus far.

“How did you two meet?”

Steve immediately starts to choke.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leaning over instinctively, Bucky ducks his head to check that Steve’s still breathing. His face is bright red, although, in all fairness, it’s been like that ever since they got to the restaurant.

“You fakin’ it?” he asks, hopefully too low for the others to hear.

“Do I-- _ look _ \--like I’m faking it?” Steve wheezes. Even gasping for breath, he manages to send Bucky an incredulous glare.

It’s kinda impressive.

Since Steve’s sitting on his right side, Bucky doesn’t hesitate to pat the other man on the back, being careful not to hit too hard.

“You okay, man?” Sam asks. The concern in his expression, the way he seems ready to lean across the table, has a flare of irritation sparking inside Bucky.

Before Bucky can bark out a testy reply, Steve seizes the opportunity.

“Actually--” And here he lets out a loud hacking cough, so obviously put on that Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I think I need to go home.”

There’s no way Steve’s friends are buying this. And, to their credit, both Sam and Peggy appear doubtful. They exchange a quick look before shrugging. 

“Are you sure?” Peggy asks. “I know you were looking to get out of the house for a bit.”

“Might’ve overdone it,” Steve says. He adds a pitiful little cough, and Bucky’s now trying not to laugh. Still, an inelegant snort escapes before he can catch himself.

“Oh, darn, you gettin’ sick too?” Sam sounds far too innocent, and that tells Bucky that he knows exactly what Steve is doing. But, instead of calling him on it, Sam seems happy to play along.

The knowing look on Sam’s face makes Bucky blush a little. Which is completely ridiculous, because… Well, it just is.

“Sure hope not,” Bucky deadpans. 

“You should probably get champ here back home. Maybe run him a hot bath.”

_ Oh, for God’s sake.  _

But before Steve can do anything more than glare--even though it's his own damn fault--Sam turns to Peggy with a broad grin. 

“Can I walk you home?”

She pretends to think about it for a moment before nodding. Bucky notices the way she peeks at Sam from beneath her lashes and wonders if he's misread the whole situation. Maybe Sam’s into Peggy? 

That makes him like Sam a little better. 

“Shouldn't we see Steven home?” Peggy asks once they leave the restaurant. A little frown has creased her brow, and she's watching Steve worriedly. 

Steve looks like he's biting his tongue, while Bucky thinks that's a sensible suggestion. You don't just send a sick friend off with someone they barely even know. 

Do his friends even know that he and Bucky had only met a few days ago?

_ Yeah, I don't think so.  _

Just what the hell had Steve told them?

“I'll be fine,” Steve tells her. When that doesn't seem to reassure her, he adds in a falsely bright voice, “Buck’s with me. He'll make sure I get home in one piece.”

Trying to seem  _ fine  _ enough to be leaving with Bucky, but  _ sick  _ enough to cut their afternoon short, Steve waves them off. Goodbyes said, he grimaces as soon as Sam and Peggy are out of sight. Bucky’s kind of worried that he enjoyed that too much. 

It must show on his face. 

“What're you smirkin’ at?” Steve grumbles. 

“You, mostly,” Bucky says honestly. Steve doesn't like that, judging by the little huff that escapes him. “I'm not really sure what just happened,” he continues, easily keeping up with Steve’s shorter strides. 

“Well,  _ I'm  _ not really sure why you even agreed to come with,” Steve shoots back.

“They invited me.” Then, seeing the disgruntled look on Steve’s face, some devil makes Bucky add, “Plus, who turns down free food?”

“Is it really that hard for you to ask Clint to make you something? He practically gives away food.”

“He cooks for me every night,” Bucky says casually. “I was hoping for something different.”

Steve stops dead, almost causing Bucky to mow him over. Glaring up at him with flashing blue eyes, Steve seems completely unaware of the difference in their height. 

It makes Bucky want to kiss him. 

_ Get your head outta your ass _ , he warns himself. 

“Bullshit,” Steve declares after a few seconds. People are skirting around them, a few of them muttering about being inconsiderate. Steve hears them. Reaching out to grab Bucky by the arm--his left one, apparently not noticing the difference--Steve drags them out of the way. 

“There's no way you live together,” Steve insists. “I've met his wife. She's a very nice, very smart lady.”

Hearing Natasha being described as  _ nice  _ makes him smirk. While he adores Nat, that isn't the first word that comes to mind when he thinks about her. 

“Permanent ménage,” Bucky replies seriously. 

The horrified embarrassment on Steve’s face is too much. Laughter breaks free from Bucky’s chest, more genuine than he can remember hearing from himself in a long time. 

“Jackass,” Steve mutters. Even the tips of his ears are red now. Still, Bucky can see the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. He leans back against the nearest wall, waiting for Bucky to calm down. 

“I almost had you,” Bucky snickers. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm a sucker.” Shaking his head, Steve starts walking again. 

He feels a hint of remorse when he notices that Steve’s cheeks are still flushed. Hurrying to catch up, he waits until their side by side before speaking. 

“Nat and I used to be a thing. Forever ago, but we've always been on good terms. While I was… away, Clint stepped up. A lot. Done a better job with the whole fatherhood thing than I'd've done.” 

All traces of laughter are gone now, guilt and gratitude washing it away. He can feel Steve’s eyes on his expression, so Bucky ducks his head a little, hiding behind his hair. 

The words get stuck in his throat. Already he'd revealed more than he told most people. His fingers twist together in front of him. 

“Livin’ with Clint and all that  _ food _ ,” Steve says finally. “Man, that must be great. I mean, I'm kinda allergic to everything, plus super picky. Twenty eight years in, I'm runnin’ outta ways to cook chicken.” 

With a tentative smile, Steve looks over at him. 

No expectations, no judgement, just… two people talking. It makes Bucky drop his gaze, emotion rising up in his chest.

“I’ll ask him to send you some recipes,” Bucky promises hoarsely.

“Hell, send me Clint.”

Bucky manages a faint grin. They walk side by side towards Steve’s apartment, and Bucky begins to relax. 

Looking at the man beside him from out the corner of his eye, Bucky gets that swooping feeling again, more intense this time.

_ Oh, yeah. I’m in  _ big _ trouble. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

By Wednesday afternoon, the relief of being back at work is offset by everyone asking him if he's better. Steve feels like an ungrateful ass, but God, the attention makes him uncomfortable. 

He'd been cornered by Frau Heinz in the parking lot on Monday morning, and then by Thor on his way to the art center, and then by what felt like every member of staff he encountered. At this point, the prospect of going into the teacher’s lounge is nothing short of daunting. 

A loud voice calling his name makes him jump. 

“Rogers! There you are. I've been looking all over the place for you.”

In spite of the fact that Tony’s looking  _ right _ at him, Steve can't help glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to find someone standing behind him. Because Steve can count on one hand the number of times he and Stark had had an actual conversation. 

“Who d’you think I'm talkin’ to?” Tony asks impatiently. “You got an identical twin nobody knows about?”

“Course not,” Steve mutters. He can feel himself flushing, so he ducks his head to hide his reaction. 

That reminds him of Bucky, and his blush deepens. 

Luckily, Tony’s focus is on himself so he doesn't seem to notice. 

“I need your help,” he says abruptly. 

“You do?” 

“Hard to imagine, I know. But I need to get Pepper something for her birthday, and I'm stumped.”

“Pepper, as in Pepper Potts, the economics teacher?”

“No, Pepper as in the bottle that's sitting in my spice rack. Yes, Pepper Potts,” Tony snaps. “I need something  _ nice _ , maybe even romantic. Something that says I’m not so self-centred that I don't know what you like.”

“Good way of goin’ about that would be, I dunno… getting her something she likes?” Steve can't stop his eyebrows from lifting. There's been speculation that Tony had a thing for Miss Potts, but it was mostly rumour. The idea that the guy might actually be serious is… disconcerting. 

“Well, I would, but I don't know what she likes besides me. I thought I could maybe wrap a bow around my--”

“No!” Steve interrupts loudly. 

“Yeah, Bruce said the same thing. So I come to you, Mr Sensitive, for some advice.”

Unbelievable.

“You've known Miss Potts a while, right?”

“Going on five years,” Tony says. “Give or take.”

“And in all that time, give or take, you haven't picked up on  _ anything  _ she likes?” Tony gives him a  _ yeah, so? _ look, and Steve lets out a disgusted sigh. “You don't deserve her.”

Steve sidesteps Tony, just wanting to go home. It's been a long day, and he's still got lesson plans to go over for tomorrow. 

“Wait, Rogers, just…” Tony backpedals hastily until he can match Steve’s pace. 

_ Doesn't take much _ , Steve thinks sourly. 

“I know plenty about Pepper, okay? I know her nose wrinkles when she smiles. And how she likes boxed wine, but she'll never tell anyone. She's smart as a whip, and she loves puns. Really bad, cheesy puns. But… I don't know what to get her that'll tell her how amazing I think she is.”

For a second, Steve doesn't even realise that he's come to a stop. He has the almost overwhelming urge to check if Stark has a temperature. 

“You blurt all that out to a virtual stranger?” Steve asks. 

“Nobody would believe you if you told ‘em.”

That's true enough, Steve supposes. 

“I'll think about it,” he mutters finally. 

Stark claps him on the shoulder, making him stagger.

“Thanks, Rogers. I take back every bad thing I ever said about you.”

“You said--?” But Stark isn't listening. With barely a backward glance, he's already striding off. 

Shaking his head, Steve heads for the parking lot at a more sedate pace. While he is feeling a lot better than he had last week, he still wasn't back to full health. Well, as full as his health ever got. 

Once Steve’s in his clapped out old Carola, he takes a moment to rest his head on the steering wheel. There'd been this… antsiness clawing at him all day. It bugs him, being off his game while he's teaching. 

Not that the kids had seemed to notice. Most of them had been delighted to see him, while a few of them had tried to press their luck. 

“Maybe we should try to take it slow, Mr Rogers,” Pietro Barnes had said earnestly. “Since you were sick an’ all.” A few of the other students had nodded in agreement.

“Thanks for your concern,” Steve had replied. “But I’m doing just fine.”

Still, after Steve had turned his back, he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what Bucky had been like, the mischief hidden behind an innocent smile.

Steve’s been thinking about Bucky a lot the last couple days.

He  _ might _ have even caught himself sketching a faint outline of a profile, the cleft of a chin, the slight upward curve of Bucky’s lips. 

Which isn’t sad or pathetic or  _ anything  _ like that.

With an exhausted sigh, Steve starts his car and carefully backs out of his spot. The drive home is uneventful, although he does get stuck in traffic for a few minutes. Bike messengers are a menace in this part of the city.

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to some aggressively cheerful pop song, Steve starts a little when his phone vibrates in the console. He flicks a glance at it, and sees a text from an unfamiliar number.

**if ur bald, wat color do they put on ur drivers license**

A startled laugh escapes him.

_ Okay. That’s… weird. _

Steve casts a guilty look at the traffic around him. They haven’t moved for a couple of minutes, and it doesn’t look likely to change in the next few. He picks up his phone to send a quick text back. 

**who is this?**

Time passes and Steve manages to get passed the holdup. He can't help but sneak glances over at his cell. 

_ Eyes on the road, Rogers _ , he reminds himself. It's not like he needs anymore help landing in the hospital. He’ll just be begging for trouble if he adds texting while driving to the list of already dangerous stuff he does. Like breathing.

Finally, another message comes through. 

**Its Bucky. Got ur no frm Clint.**

Then, a few seconds later:

**Im not stalking u I swear**

Steve mentally congratulates himself for not lunging at the phone. Hell, he's half tempted to pull over to reply. But he doesn't do that.

He's a grown ass man, after all. Mature. Responsible. Dignified. 

And if he stops at the nearest corner store to pick up some bread and cat food, it's merely a happy coincidence that it gives him time to text back. 

Staring down at the screen, Steve realises he has no idea what to say. 

**That's okay**

_ My God, that is  _ weak.

Shoulders slumping, Steve wonders around the store listlessly, a bag of cat pellets hanging from one hand. The clerk recognises him, and gives a friendly smile. Still, Steve notices the way her gaze lingers on the cat food. 

On impulse, Steve snatches up a bag of M&Ms, even though he shouldn't  be having chocolate. 

_ To hell with it _ , he thinks rebelliously. If he’s going to die alone in his apartment with nobody but Felicia, he's going to eat whatever he damn well pleases. 

Dark thoughts plaguing him until he gets home, Steve only checks his phone again after he's slumped down on the couch, the TV playing softly in the background. 

There's another text. 

**If a turtle doesnt have a shell, is it naked or homeless**

Steve stares down at his phone in something like wonder. He has no idea how to answer these questions, but it did give him some valuable insight into James Buchanan Barnes. 

The guy is a  _ huge  _ dork. 

Grinning, Steve texts back. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning: Bucky's not in a very good headspace towards the end of the chapter. I'm not terribly good at tagging for triggers and what have you, but I thought I should probably mention it.

**if u choke a smurf, wat color does he turn?**

Grinning into his coffee mug, Bucky barely pays any attention to the chaos going on around him. Sunday mornings are always hectic, with Clint taking the day off from cooking. Instead, Natasha’s standing in front of the stove handling breakfast, while Bucky will cover lunch that afternoon.

The best thing about Nat cooking is that she  _ can’t _ . It’s probably the  _ only  _ thing Natasha can’t do with utter competence. 

So while she glares down at the uncooperative eggs and bacon in the frying pan, Clint is perched on the counter, and giving advice.

She looks ready to swat him with the spatula.

When his phone buzzes with a reply from Steve, Bucky’s taking a big sip of his coffee, smirking at the expression on Nat’s face. Glancing down, Bucky almost spits out what’s in his mouth. 

**is this some kind of masturbation joke? bc if it is, I’m blocking you.**

_ Oh, Jesus. _

It takes a second for Bucky to catch his breath, his face flushing as laughter bursts free from his chest. Snatching up a napkin to wipe at his chin and shirt, Bucky looks up to find his family watching him curiously.

“What’s funny, Daddy?” Wanda asks.

“Oh, uh… nothin’,” Bucky stammers, unaccountably flustered. “Just a friend.” He sounds like a teenager, and he barely manages to hide a wince.

Natasha, damn her eyes, doesn’t fail to notice. Turning away from the stove with what appears to be relief, she smirks at him.

“Is this the same friend you’ve been messaging for the last month?”

_ Jeez, has it already been a month? _

Casually, Bucky slides his phone back into his pocket, reminding himself to text Steve back later. 

“I talk to lots of people,” he tells Natasha, playing dumb. The way she narrows her eyes at him tells Bucky that she isn’t fooled. She deals with liars all the time, and by the sounds of it, doesn’t have much difficulty in making people squeal.

Bucky isn’t entirely sure why he’s being so cagey about this. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. He can text a guy he likes without getting necessarily wanting to get an ad in the paper announcing it.

“Since when?” Clint asks. The words are garbled since he’s now munching on a slice of toast. Probably the safest thing to eat since Natasha is now clearly not paying attention to breakfast.

“You wanna try that again?” Bucky wrinkles his nose in amused disgust.

Rolling his eyes, Clint takes a moment to chew before swallowing. He clears his throat, and then repeats, “Since when d’you talk to a lotta people?”

“Well, I-- Maybe I don’t talk to as many people as you two do,” Bucky says defensively. “But I have friends.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy, I believe you.” Wanda, sweet, serious child, pats his hand reassuringly. She goes back to colouring in.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Bucky says pointedly. Turning to Pietro, who’s playing on Clint’s tablet, he asks, “You believe me too, right?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

Clint snickers and is no doubt preparing to make some smartass comment when Bucky’s self-preservation instincts kick in. So he does what any man in his position would do.

He throws his ex under the bus.

“Breakfast is burning,” he blurts out.

That gets Clint’s attention. Looking around wildly, he sees that an unhealthy amount of smoke is rising up from the frying pan. With a startled yelp, he hops off the counter and bumps Natasha out of the way in an attempt to salvage what’s left of breakfast.

“Asshole,” Natasha mutters. Giving him a  _ look _ \--the one she usually reserves for sketchy witnesses--she turns to listen to Clint scolding her for cremating the bacon.

Bucky knows he’s going to pay for that, but at least he’s managed to get them off his back for now. Slouching comfortably in his seat, Bucky pulls out his phone again. He sees that it’s a link, and clicks on it without thinking. Eyes scanning the first few lines of text, Bucky doesn’t even try to hold back his laughter. 

Turns out that choking the smurf is a masturbation thing.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Looking up with a guilty start, Steve meets Peggy’s fondly exasperated gaze. 

“I'm sorry,” he blurts. “It's just…” He waved his phone in explanation. 

“It's quite alright.” They're in a coffee shop, another of those off the beaten track types that Peggy loves so much. Leaning her elbow on the rickety table, she rests her chin on her hand. “Is that your James?”

“Dunno that he's my anything,” Steve mumbles. 

“You two have been texting an awful lot,” Peggy points out. “Is there perhaps a date on the horizon?”

“No, no, it's--it's nothin’ like that.” But Steve knows the bright flush on his cheeks betrays him. 

Peggy’s smile is gentle. “It's alright if that's what you want. He’s handsome, he's charming.” She pauses briefly before adding, “I've not seen you smile like this in quite some time.”

His blush deepens. Fidgeting with his cup and saucer, Steve hesitantly admits, “I really like him.”

“I don't suppose you'd take my advice is I suggested you asked him out?” Peg ventures. 

“You suppose right.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, while Steve stews over the fact that he’s kind of being a wuss. He’s never been one to back down from a fight, but this… this is different. 

First off, Steve has absolutely no idea if Bucky swings that way. It would be more awkward than Steve’s cares to imagine to have to listen to Bucky explaining that he’s only interested in girls. Plus… Well, in the short time Steve's known him, Bucky’s become his friend. Maybe even his  _ best  _ friend.

_ I don’t wanna mess that up. _

Peg doesn’t let him stay wrapped up in his thoughts for too long. Instead, she changes the subject. 

“Has Tony stopped pestering you about a present for Pepper?”

That distracts Steve just fine. He lets out an aggravated groan. 

“ _ No _ . And he insists that I should be able to come up with something because I'm a  _ sensitive artist _ .” Steve practically spits the words out, indignation making him sit up straight in his seat. “I told him to do a reenactment of Pepper’s favourite movie, but he doesn't even know what that  _ is _ .” 

“The bastard,” Peggy says seriously. 

“Right? He's--” Steve stops talking when he sees the way Peggy’s eyes are lit up with laughter. He can't help it; his lips twitch. 

“I'm sorry,” he sighs because there are few things that get him as riled as Stark. 

“It's a wonder you two don't get on better,” she tells Steve. “You're about as dramatic as he is.”

Steve’s tempted to argue, but Peg continues in a kind voice, “You know that it must be quite difficult for him to ask for help. He's usually prefers to do things by himself.”

“Dunno know why he doesn't just buy her a gift card or somethin’,” he huffs. 

“Well, that wouldn't be terribly romantic.”

“Askin’  _ me _ is?” Steve says incredulously. 

“Fair enough,” Peggy concedes. “But I do think you could help him if you put your mind to it. Even if you're not keen on Tony, Pepper is mad for him.”

“Mad is right,” Steve mutters. 

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Peggy says, taking a sip of her tea. “Sanity rarely has anything to do with it.”

Her words make him pause. God knows, attraction seldom makes any sense. Just look at him, crushing on a more likely than not straight veteran whose kids happen to be in his class. 

Steve feels an unexpected pang of sympathy for Stark. It'll probably only last until the next time Tony pisses him off--sometime Monday morning--but that's enough time for him to at least start brainstorming. 

“You're right,” Steve says finally. 

“I usually am,” Peg agrees with a mischievous smile. 

Returning her grin, Steve just shakes his head, once again glad that he has Peggy as a friend. Who knows what he'd do without her and Sam. 

For the next half hour, Peg manages to keep him distracted. They go through the newspaper, and her withering commentary on some of the candidates running for president is enough to have Steve wheezing with laughter. 

She leaves him a while later with a quick kiss to the cheek. Watching her walk away, Steve feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. Once she's turned the corner, he allows himself to look over at who was texting him. 

It's Bucky. 

Steve reads through the message--breakfast with Natasha had apparently been a disaster--and grins widely at the mental image of the immaculate woman wearing an apron and a scowl.

But the smile soon fades. 

His chest hurts, not from the asthma, but because a kind of longing is filling up the space between his heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. 

Typing a quick reply, Steve starts for home. He doesn't pay too much attention to where he's going, feet pretty much carrying him on autopilot. That's probably why he doesn't notice the burly men until it's too late. 

“Hey, there, pretty.”

Rough hands grab him from behind, sending him stumbling into a deserted alley. 

_ Oh, hell _ . 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky pulls a face down at the book lying open on his desk. It's been awhile since he's actually had to the studying thing, and it's taking a little getting used to. 

Getting accepted to vocational school had been so friggin’ exciting and terrifying, he hadn't quite known what to do with himself. 

The first person to find out had been Steve. It'd surprised Bucky at first since they'd still been strangers, more or less. What would Steve care that Bucky was going back to school? His mom back in Florida, Nat, Phil down at the VA, those were the people he knew, who'd be so damn  _ glad  _ that Bucky was doing more than hanging out in a dingy bar. 

Maybe that was why he'd told Steve first. Steve had only the vaguest understanding of Bucky’s myriad of issues. He was under no obligation to be carefully supportive, or relieved that Bucky wouldn't be coming home drunk anymore. 

**Im goin back 2 school**

For the few minutes Bucky had had to wait for a reply, his stomach had churned uncomfortably. Logic be damned, Steve’s opinion was important for some reason. 

**Congrats. I'll by ya some no. 2 pencils.**

Lips twitching, Bucky had felt some of the tension easing from his shoulders. 

**Ur a punk, u no that?**

Steve’s reply had come only seconds later.

**Jerk.**

He shouldn’t be thinking about Steve, not now when he’s supposed to be getting some work done. But he can’t seem to help it. Shaking his head, Bucky focuses on his text book.

The minutes pass, and Bucky’s eyes keep straying to his phone. He tosses it on the bed. Tries to study some more. Becomes convinced that he can hear a text coming through.

_ Oh, for God’s sake. _

Slamming his text book shut, Bucky shoves out of his chair, moving to snatch up his phone.

_ Can always study when the kids are at school. _

Bucky flops down onto his bed, and sends a quick text through to Steve. While he waits for a reply, he checks Facebook--it reminds him why he never checks Facebook--and watches a couple of cat videos on YouTube, looking for something to maybe show Steve.

Minutes pass, and Bucky gets a little bored waiting for Steve’s reply. Rolling over onto his side, and clutching at his pillow, he decides to rest his eyes, just for a little bit. 

His dreams are disjointed and strange; anxiety crawls over his skin as his subconscious has him chasing after something-- _ someone _ \--just out of his reach.

_ Faster. Move just a little faster. If I just get there in time... _

But it’s like running in sand. His feet get no grip on the ground beneath him, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

Jerking awake just before he hits the ground, Bucky gasps for air. His chest hurts, and his left shoulder  _ aches _ where the prosthetic meets skin. An agonised sound tears free from his throat, and Bucky has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from screaming.

Distantly, Bucky realises he can taste blood on the back of his tongue.

It takes a long time for his breath to even out, and even then, his fingers are still trembling. Forcing himself up out of bed, Bucky heads into the bathroom. The house is quiet; he must’ve slept longer than he’d thought. 

He feels the cold tile beneath his feet, and it grounds him a little. Going on autopilot, he locks the bathroom door and begins to strip. Bucky doesn’t pay attention to the clothes dropping to the floor in a haphazard heap; instead, he lays down flat on the floor, a sharp gasp escaping him as his sweaty skin makes contact with the tiles.

_ Breathe, just breathe.  _

But it doesn’t seem to help. The memory of distant shouting, heat washing over his skin in a wave. 

_ Pain _ . 

Closing his eyes, Bucky just wishes he could find a way to drown it all out. It’s so much, too much, and God, it  _ hurts _ . 

Bucky doesn’t know how long he stays there for. Sweat--tears?--is trickling down his face, and he can’t find the energy to wipe them away. 

He stays there until Natasha finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments, beautiful people! I appreciate it so very much!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very very brief mention of suicide. Natasha kind of freaks out when she finds Bucky on the bathroom floor.

Natasha isn't a worrier by nature. There's something so  _ passive _ about it that it makes her teeth hurt. So instead, she makes plans for every contingency, while staying flexible enough to adapt those plans. 

But there's nothing she can do about this. Shoulders hunched up, Bucky’s disappeared into his own head, staring blankly ahead of him. She'd wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, but he barely seemed to notice. 

When she'd found him on the bathroom floor, the first thing she'd looked for was blood, terror spiking through her. In the absence of blood, she'd worried about pills. 

“Oh, God, James! James, wake up!” Panic had made Natasha’s voice high and thin, and later she’d muse that it'd sounded nothing like her. 

When she’d dropped to her knees and shaken him, his head had lolled weakly in her direction. Misery had been etched into his features, and he was shivering against the cold tile. 

The thought of him lying there like that makes her gag. 

“I don't know what brought this on,” Natasha whispers. “He… He was fine yesterday.”

Clint touches her shoulder gently, and she can't help but flinch away from the contact. She doesn't need  _ comfort _ right now, she needs James to  _ get up.  _

“Where's his phone?” Natasha asks sharply. “I wanna call that guy down at the VA. What's his name? Bill? Gil?” 

_ Damn it, I never forget a name.  _

Abruptly furious at herself, Natasha hurls her own cell across the room. The loud clatter makes James cringe, pulling further into himself with a sound like a frightened child. 

“Hey, hey.” Clint steps in front of her, but makes no move to touch her. “You need to calm down okay?” She's about to snap at him when he adds, “Bucky needs you with your head on straight, okay? You're no good to him like this.”

Drawing a deep breath, Natasha spares a moment to be grateful Clint’s here. Her shelter in the storm. 

When she speaks again, her voice is calmer. 

“Could you take the kids to school? James won't want them to see him like this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'll-- They already know somethin’s up. Don't need to freak ‘em out anymore.”

Clint gives her a sad smile before turning away. He's just about to shut the door behind him when Natasha forces the words out of her tight throat. 

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” he promises. 

For a long time, Natasha just stands there in silence. She feels so useless like this. A part of her wants to demand that James just snap out of it, that he go back to being a pain in the ass  _ right now _ . But that can't be the right thing to do. 

_ God, he lost his whole team out there _ . The memory makes her angry. No one deserved that, and for it to happen to James? It’s just so fucking wrong.

Natasha holds onto that anger; it's better than the helplessness. Sliding down the wall, she sinks down onto the floor. 

“I'm here,” she tells him softly. “James, if you're hearing me right now, I'm  _ here.  _ Okay? If you wanna talk, or just sit here, I'm not leaving you.”

And she doesn't. Not until he slowly comes back to himself. Seeming only to notice her hours later, James looks so ashamed that it hurts. But he doesn't say anything. He only gets up, moving so slowly, and then sinks down onto the floor beside her. 

When he extends his arm, silently offering to let her get under the blanket with him, Nat simply scoots closer. 

They stay like that until Bucky falls asleep. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hospitals suck. Steve’s always known that, since he's spent most of his life in and out of the ICU. Pneumonia has been the main culprit for his ending up in here for as long as Steve can remember. 

Only this Monday morning, Steve’s here for--

“A broken wrist, couple fractured ribs, an’ a concussion.” Sally Jackson, the nurse on duty, shakes her head at him morosely. She’d worked with his Ma for years, and has been at the hospital for as long as Steve can remember.

Whenever he finds himself in this place, Miss Jackson takes the time to visit and scold him. Today is no different.

“Takin’ up cage fightin’ now, huh, Steven? Am I gonna find you beatin’ your chest on one of those cable channels?”

Steve laughs, even though it makes his head hurt.

“Would you bet on me, Miss Jackson?” he teases.

“Of course, I would. Don’t think there’s a person in the world with a head harder than yours.” Still, despite her words, Miss Jackson gives him a slightly worried smile. “You know,” she adds softly, “your mama would be mighty worried about you.”

A tired sigh escapes Steve, and he ducks his head to avoid her stare.

“They were tryin’ to mug me,” he points out in a small, defiant voice.

“And you should’ve let ‘em.” Miss Jackson begins fussing with his pillows. “There’s nothing in this world worth your life, Steven. Not even that stubborn pride of yours.”

“I don’t like bullies.”

“Well, what’s your position on breathing? You like doing that?”

They’re quiet for a moment, Steve weighing her words. She wasn’t wrong; it would’ve been easy for those guys who’d mugged him to have down a hell of a lot worse. But it just isn’t in his nature to back down.

Rather than offer an apology they’d both know he won’t really mean, Steve decides to smile tentatively. 

“Any chance of there being a cellphone charger around here?” 

“You kept your phone?” 

“Nobody uses Blackberry’s anymore. Least, that’s what the guys who mugged me said.”

Miss Jackson makes an outraged sound. Promising that she’ll do her best to find something, she leaves him alone to make the rest of her rounds.

Shifting restlessly on the narrow, uncomfortable bed, Steve spares a moment to curse modern technology. God knows he loves his smartphone as much as the next person, but that means that he doesn’t know  _ any _ of his friends’ numbers off the top of his head.

Well, that’s not  _ entirely  _ true. There is one number that he’s memorised. 

_ God, I’m so lame. _

But it feels so weird just calling someone and announcing, “Oh, hey, I’m in the hospital.” He doesn’t even like telling Sam that, and they’ve known each other for years.

Finally, after about an hour, during which time Steve tries and fails not to mope, Miss Jackson returns, a regretful expression on her face.  

“I’m sorry, Steven. Looks like those fellas were right. Nobody really seems to use those Blueberry’s anymore.”

It takes a lot of effort for Steve to hide his smile. But with the thought that he can’t let anyone know how he is until his phone’s battery is charged dims his amusement somewhat. He really ought to let someone know that he’s okay.

Swallowing his pride, Steve forces himself to ask, “D’you mind if I use the hospital phone?”

Miss Jackson agrees, but only if Steve will let her wheel him over in a chair. Muttering unhappily under his breath, Steve stares at his knobbly knees as she wheels him to the reception desk.

“Here you go,” Miss Jackson says as she hands him the receiver. “And don’t give me that look,” she adds. “If you’d walked outta your room, you skinny butt would’ve been swayin’ in the breeze for all these good people to see.”

An unwilling laugh forces it’s way out of Steve’s throat. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees.

Once she leaves him alone with the phone, Steve wedges the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, and dials Bucky’s number with his working hand. Steve takes a moment to thank God that it was only his left arm that got hurt.

His heart is beating fast, a combination of nerves and excitement. He really does hate telling people he’s in the hospital, the way they worry about him making him feel horribly guilty.

But he really can’t wait to hear Bucky’s voice.

Only, it’s not Bucky that answers. 

“Hello?” a woman’s sharp voice asks.

“Uh, hi. I'm, uh, looking for Bucky.”

“He's not available right now.” The woman--Steve suspects that it's Clint’s wife--tells him. “May I ask who's calling?”

“It's, uh, it’s Steve?” He cringes, hating how that comes out sounding like a question.

_ What, like I’m not sure of my own damn name? _

But instead of hanging up on him like she probably should, she asks, “Is this Steve? Teacher Steve?”

“That's me,” he says with a nervous laugh. 

A tired sigh comes across the line, and for a moment she doesn't say anything. 

“I'm sorry. This Natasha. Clint Barton’s wife?”

“Yeah, you're kinda hard to forget,” Steve says without thinking. She lets out what sounds like a snort. “Is, uh--is Bucky okay?”

All traces of amusement disappear. “He's having a bad day,” Natasha admits quietly. “I'll ask him to give you a call as soon as he's feeling up to it.”

“Thanks, that's… Yeah, thanks. Natasha?” he forces out before she can hang up. “Can I ask you a favour?”

“You can ask,” Natasha replies guardedly. 

“I kinda ended up in the hospital,” he explains. “And my phone’s battery is dead. D’you think--”

“Wait, how'd you land in hospital? Are you sick? Clint mentioned a while back that you had an asthma attack or something in class.”

_ Well, that isn't at all embarrassing.  _

“It's nothing like that,” Steve says hastily. 

There's a long moment of silence, and it's clear that Natasha’s waiting for an explanation. 

“Got mugged,” he mumbles. “They roughed me up a little.” 

“They did what?”

“So, I was hoping you could ask Clint to let Sam and Peggy that I'm fine?” he continues, ignoring the rhetorical question. “I already missed school today, so they're probably already worried,”

“Did you see their faces?”

“Who, Sam and Peg?” Steve asks, deliberately obtuse. 

“Your attackers. Have you reported this to the police?”

“I was a little busy bein’ concussed,” Steve huffs before he can think better of it. 

That earns him a genuine laugh. It's a nice sound, warm and husky. Steve smiled in spite of himself. 

“Alright, but only if you tell me something.” It sounds like she's still smiling. 

“Okay?”

“Are you the person James has been texting these last couple weeks?”

“I'm sure he texts lots of people,” Steve answers, defensive for some reason. 

“Funny, he told me the same thing.” Before Steve can think of an appropriate answer, she's telling him, “I'll pass the message on to Clint. Take care of yourself.”

And with that, she hangs up on him. 

Steve pulls the receiver away from his ear, staring at it as though expecting it to offer some sort of explanation for what just happened. 

“Scary,” he mutters to himself. It's an effort to get the phone up onto the reception desk--curse whatever generic fuck up that's made him so short--and then manages to roll himself halfway back to his room one handed. He’s just bumped into the wall-- _ again _ \--when a loud voice almost has him leaping out of the chair.

“Tell me I’m not seeing this. Tell me you are  _ not  _ trying to wheel yourself around with a broken wrist and cracked ribs.”

_ Shit. _

Marching over to him, Miss Jackson is practically bristling with indignation. She ignores his sputtering as she grabs the handles of the wheelchair and steers him to his room. 

“Damn fool boy, thinks he’s invincible…”

Steve knows better than to interrupt, so he just sits there meekly while Miss Jackson spends the next ten minutes lecturing him. 

It makes his head hurt more than the concussion.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His whole body hurts. Muscles that ache from all the time he’d spent locked in one position seem to be groaning in protest as he shuffles to the bathroom. Grimacing, Bucky avoids looking at the mirror as he passes.

Distantly, he can hear Clint’s voice coming from the kitchen.

“...sea salt, not regular--” A brief pause, then, “Of course it matters! How could it not? Next thing I know, you’ll be givin’ ‘em sugar substitute!”

The level of indignation in his voice is oddly reassuring. Bucky washes his hands carefully, eyes fixed on the way his fingers shine dimly in the light. Sometimes it’s hard to stop concentrating on the little things after he starts coming out of this.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Bucky finds Clint pacing, his hair sticking up in all directions. His lips quirk in spite of himself.

“What do you mean it’s--” Clint cuts himself off when he catches sight of Bucky. “I’ll have to call you back. Bye.” He hangs up, and lets out an irritable huff.

“Goddamn substitute teachers,” he grumbles. “Changing recipes willy nilly. She has them using table salt!”

It’s a relief, to see Clint acting so normal. It wouldn’t have taken much to make him feel like a freak.

“I can’t believe it. What’s the world comin’ to?” Bucky mutters. He drags a chair out to sit at the kitchen table; the sound is loud in the room. 

Clint huffs his agreement. Busting himself with the coffee machine, he doesn't say anything else for a few minutes. Finally, he takes a seat at the table, two mugs of coffee in hand. Bucky accepts it gratefully. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Well, couple things I've been told to tell ya. First, Nat wants you to call her. Like, right now. But you should finish your coffee first; you're gonna need it,” he adds with a wry smile. 

“Okay, what else? You said a couple things,” Bucky reminds him. 

“I did that, huh?” Clearly stalling, Clint takes a sip of his coffee. “Well, Steve called while you were… out.”

_ Fuck.  _

Bucky feels a flush creeping over his cheeks. His metal fingers are gripping the edge of the table so hard that the wood creaks in protest. 

“So, uh… what did you tell him?”

“Nothing. Nat handled it. But it turns out that your intrepid art teacher had had his own fun and games to deal with.” When Bucky raises his eyebrows expectantly, Clint slumps in his seat. Clearly not wanting to say anything, he mumbles, “Steve was in the hospital. Some assholes mugged him.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Hey, take it easy!” Clint makes calm down motions with his hands, expression exasperated. “He's fine, just kinda grouchy from what I heard. Dude spends more time in the hospital than he does in his own friggin’ apartment.” 

“Which hospital?”

“Bucky, you don't need to go over there. He's really okay.”

But his words aren't registering. All that Bucky can think about is that Steve had called  _ him  _ when he was in trouble. 

_ And I wasn't there.  _

“I need to go,” he says distantly. 

“No, wait, you-- Goddamn it, Barnes.” He's talking to Bucky’s back by this point. All Bucky can think about is getting to the hospital. 

“Will you please calm the fuck down? He might not even be there anymore.” 

“Why not?” Bucky demands. 

Clint releases a put upon sigh. “Because Sam and Peggy--they're friends of his from school--”

“I've met ‘em.”

“Course you have. Look, they've probably already taken Steve back to his apartment by now. He's just gonna be sleepin for the next couple hours.”

“Fine.”

“ _ Fine _ ? Okay, that's… unexpectedly fine. I'm glad you're seeing reason--”

“No, I meant, fine, I'll head over to his apartment.” 

“Oh, for the love of--” Clint groans in frustration. “Can you at least call Nat? Your friend since you were about knee high? Y’know, she's also the mother of your children?”

“You call her.” But even as Bucky says the words, he feels a bite of guilt. Even as out of it as he'd been, he knew Natasha had been there for him. 

_ I'll call her as soon as I know Steve’s okay.  _

Urgency gives him energy, and he's marching towards his room. Hurriedly pulling on some clothes, he ignores Clint’s ranting. 

“Compromise,” Clint says loudly when Bucky comes out wearing the first pair of jeans he could find and a ragged shirt. “I drive you to Rogers’ place; you talk to Nat. Sound fair?”

Bucky hesitates, but only for a second. 

“Fine. Hurry up.”

More muttering, and then Clint’s grabbing his car keys. 


	12. Chapter 12

“I’m fine.”

“Steven, if you say that one more time, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” Peggy says tersely.

“But… I am.” He winces when Peg glares at him, and then goes about trying to disappear into the couch cushions.

He would look to Sam for support--or protection, as the case may be--but Sam isn’t here. Apparently one instance of mugging means that Steve can’t go to the store by himself.

“You did what?” Sam had exclaimed when Steve explained what happened. “You almost got  _ killed _ \--”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“--over a goddamn cell phone? Are you outta your mind?”

But while Sam’s anger had burned bright and hot, it had cooled relatively quickly. Peggy’s fury, on the other hand, was like a giant friggin’ glacier. He can practically  _ feel _ the chill emanating from her.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly. Peg’s carefully rearranging his things, straightening the threadbare rug on the floor, messing with the art supplies that are scattered across his kitchen counter. She doesn’t look at him when she replies.

“Whatever for?”

Her tone is super polite, and it’s a testament to how pissed off she is. She usually reserves that tone for evangelical street preachers.

“For bein’ reckless. You and Sam are right. It was stupid. I’m stupid.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Still, Peggy looks up, and it’s easy to see the worry beneath the disapproval. “Really, Steve,” she says after a moment. “What were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t,” he answers honestly. And it’s the truth. 

His Ma used to have this saying, something she always turned to whenever she had to sell a piece of jewellery from her meager collection to put food on the table, or when Steve would come home with a black eye or a split lip.

_ Fall down seven times, get up eight. _

And if you're down because they pushed you, well… All the more reason to get up. 

“Well, maybe they'll think better of messing with someone next time.”

Peggy’s expression morphs into one of disbelief, but she's interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. 

“Look who I ran into,” Sam says by way of greeting. He's carrying a couple of grocery bags, and behind him is… 

“Bucky.” Is that Steve’s voice that sounds all breathless and stupid, like he's the heroine in some friggin’ regency novel?”

_ God, this can't get any more embarrassing.  _

“Wha-what are you doing here?” he stammers. 

“Came to check up on you,” Bucky tells him. Steve can't help but notice the dark circles under his eyes, even though Bucky’s trying to hide behind his hair. 

“You didn't have to do that. But, uh, I'm glad you're here,” he adds when it looks like Bucky’s going to argue. 

“Well, someone has to yell at you when you're bein’ a dumbass.”

“Don't you worry, man, me and Peg got that covered,” Sam chips in, reminding Steve that he and Peggy are still here. “First thing we did when we got to the hospital.”

Shit. It's freakishly easy to forget about the rest of the world when Bucky’s near him. 

Rubbing his palms over his jeans in a nervous gesture that seems unaffected by the prosthetic, Bucky crosses the room to take a seat beside Steve. He offers Steve a tight smile. 

“Sorry I didn't pick up.”

Steve reaches out compulsively, taking Bucky’s hand in his. It's only when he feels cold metal beneath his fingertips that he realises that it’s Bucky's left hand; he doesn't know how much Bucky can actually  _ feel,  _ but he squeezes anyway. 

“Are you okay?” Steve whispers. 

“Just great.”

Frowning, Steve wants to press, but bites the words back. They're not alone. 

“So, Rogers, tell me,” Sam starts from the kitchen. “What we feeding ya?”

It's hard to drag his gaze away from Bucky, but he manages to aim a glare at Sam from across the room. 

“We've talked about this,” he says loudly. “I can cook for myself.”

“Do you know what else we've talked about?” Peggy asks. “You picking fights with people who are bigger than you. If you'd actually taken notice of that conversation, we wouldn't be having this one.”

Sam grins broadly, waving on hand in Peg’s direction. 

“What the smart lady said. Barnes, you any good at cooking? I was thinking we could form an assembly line, get this done quicker.”

The lines of tension in his body grow more taut for a brief moment before Bucky grins. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

“I think I know my way round the kitchen,” he says easily as he gets up. 

And so, for the next hour, Steve finds himself sitting on a stool, overseeing the preparation of his dinner for the next week. 

_ It could be worse. You could still be in the hospital.  _

That only makes it a fraction less painful. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Sam and Peggy leave Steve’s apartment, Bucky can practically feel himself twitching.

_ Not their fault _ , he reminds himself. 

The truth is, all Bucky had wanted was a little bit of quiet time Steve. And while he was glad Steve had friends like Peg and Sam, the whole time they were there, he'd been fighting the urge to shove them out the damn door. 

_ Possessive, much? _

Worrying at his lower lip nervously, Bucky casts a quick glance in Steve’s direction. He's practically drooping with weariness on the couch, and Bucky feels a pang of guilt. The guy’s just come back from the hospital. He needs rest, not for Bucky to be all…  _ weird _ . 

“I should get goin’,” he murmurs. 

“What?” Steve squints at him in confusion. 

“It's getting late.”

“No, don't… don't go yet. Please? I was worried about you.”

“Dumbass,” Bucky says, that stupid friggin’ swooping feeling making itself known in the pit of his belly. 

_ Five minutes _ , he tells himself.  _ Just five more minutes.  _

Giving in, Bucky takes a seat beside Steve on the couch. He seems so small for some reason, the faint brushing on his cheekbone making him seem achingly vulnerable. A sharp spike of anger goes through him at the thought of someone hurting Steve. 

“Only person you should be worrying about right now is you,” Bucky tells him quietly. 

“I'm multitasking.” Steve grins, and  _ goddamn it _ , Bucky just wants to kiss him. Maybe, if he can just catch that smile in time, he’ll be able to hold onto the warmth in Steve’s expression. Just for a little while.

_ Selfish asshole. _

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Steve’s leaning his head against the couch, watching Bucky intently. He can’t help but shift in his seat, ducking to hide his face.

“Just… had a bad day, is all.” A bitter smile curves Bucky’s lips, and he adds in a whisper, “You know how it goes.”

“Are you talking to someone about it?” Steve asks.

This is a sensitive topic for Bucky. He hates it when people badger him about  _ seeing someone _ , as though spilling his guts to some fucking stranger will stop him from hating himself. The worst fight he’d ever had with Nat and Clint had been about him going to a therapist; they’d reached a sort of compromise, with him agreeing to attend meetings down at an old church a couple blocks from the house.

“Nat bullied me into goin’ down to the VA. My councillor, or whatever, is big on sharing.”

“You don’t share.” It’s not a question; Steve’s eyes are half closed by now, his cheeks are terribly pale. He looks exhausted.

“It’s something I need to work on,” Bucky agrees. For a moment, he allows himself to take in Steve’s features. 

_ I could look at you all day. _

“C’mon, man. You can’t sleep here.” 

“Ten bucks says you’re wrong.” There’s a brief pause, and then Steve starts giggling. “Ten bucks,” he chortles. “I’m funny.”

Bucky can’t help it; he grins. “You’re a nerd,” he corrects. Holding out both hands--and holding his breath--he waits for Steve to allow him to help him up.

But the niggling concern that Steve will recoil, abruptly coming to his senses, is unnecessary. Steve extends his uninjured arm without hesitation. The second they make contact, Steve’s skin warm against his own, it’s like Bucky can feel something inside himself begin to fracture.

They make their way to Steve’s bedroom, with Bucky bearing most of Steve’s weight. Steve flops onto the bed with a grateful moan that makes Bucky uncomfortable.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Bucky isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Should he leave? What if Steve needs help with something else?

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve says softly, almost as though he can hear Bucky’s thoughts.

“Hmmm?”

“D’you…” He takes a deep breath, and then the rest of the words come out in a rush. “Wouldyouhelpmegetsomeoftheseclothesoff?”

_ Oh, God. _

Clearing his throat with difficulty, Bucky manages to grate out a rough sounding, “Sure.” It’s then that he realises that he has no fuckin’ idea what to do.

_ I am in such deep shit. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_ This is great. Really just great,  _ Steve grumbles internally.  _ Now you’ve given him anxiety.  _

Steve wonders if he should tack on a  _ no-homo _ just to put the other man at ease. 

“Y’know what? It’s fine,” he says hastily. “I’ll just--”

“Stop talkin’, Rogers,” Bucky tells him gruffly. He seems to take a deep breath before coming closer. It’s awkward trying to get his clothes off around the sling, but Steve can’t really pay too much attention to that.

Instead, all his awareness is centred on Bucky touching him, on the soft puffs of Bucky’s breath caressing his skin. 

Exhaustion and exhilaration make him kind of lightheaded. Is it weird that he’s listing closer to Bucky a little? His legs feel like jelly, and  _ woah _ … Steve’s attention gets caught on Bucky’s face for a moment.

“You have really long eyelashes,” he mumbles.

“How strong are the meds they’ve got you on?” Bucky’s staring at him like he’s insane, and really, who can blame him? A non sequitur like that is enough to make most straight guys run away screaming.

“Sorry. Tend to talk a lot when I’m tired.”

“Then you must be beat. C’mon.” Bucky pulls back the covers on Steve’s bed, and jerks his chin at the mattress. 

He’s left in just his undershirt and the sweats he’d come home from the hospital in. It takes some maneuvering to get himself comfortable, and when he looks up, Bucky’s watching him. His gaze appears to be fixed on Steve’s chest.

Steve feels himself flush. He knows he’s skinny-- _ too  _ skinny, some would say--and it embarrasses him for Bucky to see him. It’s been awhile since he’s felt this self-conscious around someone.

“... your ribs feeling?”

“Huh?”

That earns him an impatient look, one Steve’s often on the receiving end of from Sam and Peg when he tries to pretend he’s not getting sick when they can hear him wheezing. 

“Your ribs, Steve. Aren’t a couple of ‘em broken?”

“ _ No _ ,” Steve says sullenly. “They’re just a little… fractured.”

“A little fractured?” Bucky repeats. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath too low for Steve to hear. Gathering a couple of pillows, he puts his knee on the mattress. 

Steve gulps. 

“What're you doin’?”

“How you gonna get up in the night?” Bucky asks. “You gonna be able to push yourself up with your ribs like that?”

“I'll be fine,” Steve mutters. 

“Uh-huh.” Expression unimpressed, he wedges the pillows beneath Steve’s back. It brings him close--too close--and Steve has to squeeze his eyes shut.

_ Not good, not good.  _

He waits for the mattress to shift to indicate that Bucky’s moved. When there's nothing but silence, he chances peeking up through his eyelashes.

Bucky’s staring at his mouth. It makes Steve lick his lips automatically; the sound of Bucky’s breath catching makes his own breathing speed up. 

For a long moment, they're just looking at each other. Steve waits for  _ something  _ to happen, and wonders if maybe he should say something. 

For once, though, Steve’s mouth doesn't act independently of his brain. And a second later, he's so incredibly  _ immensely  _ glad of that. 

Because Bucky closes the distance between their lips and kisses him. 

It's just a gentle brush, chaste and sweet, and Steve feels lightheaded again. Neither of them move, both savouring the contact. Steve wants more, and reaches to wrap his arms around Bucky to draw him closer. 

Only, he'd forgotten about the goddamn sling. A pained squeak escapes his throat before he can stop it. 

The sound breaks the spell. 

“I should go,” Bucky says abruptly. He straightens, hurriedly turning his back on Steve. “Text me if you need anything.”

And just like that, he's gone. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Will you please just answer your phone?**

**-** _ 08:46 _

**You're being ridiculous**

**-** _ 09:14 _

**We really do need to talk**

**-** _ 11:32 _

**I promise I'm not stalking you**

**-** _ 12:51 _

**But I swear to god, I will if you don't answer you phone**

**-** _ 12:54 _

Bucky can't help the faint grin as he reads that last message. Steve had spent most of today and the day before trying to get ahold of him, but Bucky had been dodging his calls. 

Knowing how tenacious Steve is, it's all too easy to imagine him trying to pull some kind of stakeout. 

The mental image of that jaw jutting out stubbornly, eyes narrowed, and full lips pressed together into a firm line makes something catch in Bucky’s chest.

Maybe Steve’s right. Maybe he is being ridiculous. The truth is, Bucky doesn't even know why he's freaking out about this. It was just a friggin’ kiss. The whole thing had barely even lasted more than a minute. 

_ Didn't stop me from feelin’ it in my whole body. _

Another text comes through. Bucky checks it automatically. 

**One kiss DOES NOT mean that you're gay.**

**-** _ 13:08 _

Bucky snorts out a laugh. A couple at the neighbouring table give him a strange look. Which, yeah, fair enough. It's a crowded coffee shop during lunch hour. Everyone’s seated so close together that it's beginning to make him twitchy. 

**It wasn't even much of a kiss**

**-** _ 13:13 _

_ Say what now? _

Scowling down at the screen, Bucky texts back. 

**Wtf does that mean**

**-** _ 13:14 _

While Bucky waits for Steve’s response, he silently stews. For a moment he thanks God there's no one around to see him like this. If Nat or, God help him,  _ Clint _ ever got wind of him acting like this, he'd never hear the end of it. 

_ Goddamn it, what's taking so long? _

Steve's text comes through a few minutes later. 

**Seriously? That is what you choose to respond to?**

**-** _ 13:18 _

It's a good point. Bucky doesn't care. 

**R u sayin im a bad kisser?**

**-** _ 13:19 _

His fingers are tapping out an edgy beat on the table; whatever the people at the next table see in Bucky’s expression makes the dude edge his seat closer to his girlfriend. 

**You're an idiot.**

**-** _ 13:24 _

That's a very valid point, but it doesn't answer his question. Bucky scowls down at his phone, as though the expression would somehow make its way to Steve. 

A familiar voice says his name, and that distracts Bucky for a moment. As soon as he sees who it is, though, he thinks he’d rather deal with Steve’s critique of his kissing.

Phil Coulson is giving him that amiable smile that makes Bucky want to hit him. It’s kind and understanding and entirely too knowing. And he’s standing a few steps away, taking in Bucky’s aggravated expression and the way his right hand is clenched on the table.

“Hey, Barnes, how you doing?” he asks. “Been a while.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, staring down at the table in front of him rather than at Coulson. 

“Mind if I sit?”

Without waiting for Bucky’s reply, Coulson pulls out the empty chair and makes himself comfortable. He takes a sip of his drink, some frothy thing that Bucky doesn’t know the name of. All the while, Coulson watches him with that friendly expression.

It’s clear that he’s waiting for Bucky to say something, but Bucky doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he slumps in his chair, and glares at his phone some more.

“We missed you at last week’s meeting,” Coulson says conversationally. “And the week before that. And the week before that.” 

“If you wanna say somethin’, just fuckin’ say it,” Bucky grits out. 

“I just did.” Still maddenly calm, Coulson watches him. It makes Bucky twitchy, and yet he still doesn't move, as though the weight of Coulson’s knowing gaze keeps him pinned to his seat. 

“Somethin’ came... somethin’ came up. I was feeling better.”

“And now?”

“This isn’t a meeting, Coulson. I’m not gonna spill my guts over coffee.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to. But just so you know, Barnes… you really do need to talk to someone.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but Coulson continues seriously, “It’s not healthy to bottle things up like this.”

A bitter smirk quirks Bucky’s lips at that. He thinks of all the nights he’s woken up screaming, the sound just barely muffled by his pillow.

_ Yeah, I wish I could bottle it all up. _

“I should get going,” Bucky says after a moment of silence. “I, uh, I got reading to do for class.”

“Oh, you’re back at school?” Coulson asks with interest.

“Vocational,” Bucky mutters. He ducks his head before he can stop himself. It’s not as though he thinks Coulson’s gonna laugh at him, it’s just… Well, it makes him feel weird. He’s almost thirty years old, and he’s going back to school.

“That’s really great, Barnes. Congrats.” He pauses, then adds, “Wish you’d said something earlier. The group would’ve been happy to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He shoves out of his chair, and grabs his stuff. “I’ll, uh, see you around.” Turning to leave, Bucky stops when Coulson speaks again. He has to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the chatter of the coffee shop.

“You know where to find me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just waves as he walks away.

_ Pushy fuckin’ asshole. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Could you send me a couple pictures of Pepper?**

**-** _ 16:28 _

Edgy, Steve paces the length of his living room. He’d come back from the hospital about an hour ago, and he is  _ pissed.  _

“I’m sorry, Mr Rogers,” the nurse--a young one who Steve hadn’t recognised--had said. “You’re gonna need to keep the splint on for at least another couple days.”

“It feels fine!” Steve had tried to insist. But the nurse hadn't been having it. Heaving a beleaguered sigh, she poked him none too gently where his arm was strapped against his chest. 

He hadn't been able to bite back a yelp. Point made, the nurse had turned away from him. 

“Come back in a few days, Mr Rogers.”

So now Steve is stuck in his apartment with nothing to do since the doctor had booked him off until next Monday, and Fury had issued a very dire warning about what would happen if he came to school early. This leaves him with entirely too much time to think about a certain bonehead with really soft lips. And a killer smile. And super long eyelashes. 

Finally, the text he'd been waiting for comes through. 

**You can't have her she's mine.**

**-** _ 17:03  _

Steve rolls his eyes.

_ Why am I doing this again? _

Remembering his conversation with Peggy the other day, he lets out a little huff. She thinks Steve’s nicer than he actually is; if it weren't for her, he'd have told Tony to stick it. 

It's with Peg in mind that he texts back. 

**I'm working on her birthday present.**

**-** _ 17:05 _

He doesn't expect Tony to get back to him anytime soon, so he wanders into the kitchen to grab a sandwich. The bread’s a little stale by now, but there isn't any mould, so Steve counts that as a win.

A low buzzing sound comes from the living room, his phone rattling on the coffee table. Swallowing the last of his sandwich, he ambles to check the message. 

**Took you long enough.**

**-** _ 17:17 _

Thankfully, the text is accompanied by pictures of Pepper. Some are with Tony, and Steve can't help but notice the adoring way she looks at the man. 

Peggy’s right; the sensible Miss Potts really is smitten. 

**So what are you gonna do????**

**-** _ 17:19 _

Electing to ignore Tony’s text for the time being, Steve organises his art supplies. It takes longer than it should, and Steve is cursing both the nurse and the guys who broke his goddamn wrist by the time he’s done. He takes a seat at the table, but just as he's reaching for his pencils, his phone buzzes again.

**Hello? Talk to me Rogers. What? Is? Happening?**

**-** _ 17:24 _

**I have unlimited texting. I can do this all night.**

**-** _ 17:25 _

Yeah, Steve doesn't have any trouble believing that. 

_ Be the person Peg thinks you are. _

**Thinking of doing a couple of sketches of her. Add puns.**

**-** _ 17:29 _

Hoping that will shut Tony up, for the moment at least, Steve starts drawing. He's just losing himself in the rhythm, the world growing hazy, when another text comes through. 

“Oh, for the love of--”

**It better not be lame**

**-** _ 17:41 _

“Asshole,” Steve mutters under his breath. Taking a ridiculous amount of pleasure in turning the phone off, Steve gets back to his sketch. 

The picture Tony sent through is a good one, he has to admit. Pepper is taking a bite of an enormous slice of pizza, her nose wrinkled and eyes sparkling with laughter. She seems to enjoy Stark’s off colour remarks, and it's easy to imagine Tony making some wry observation, camera in hand to catch the expression on her face.

Time passes, and Steve’s only distantly aware of it. Concentrating on capturing the light dusting of freckles on Pepper’s nose, he starts when there's a knock at his apartment door. 

_ “Jesus Christ _ ,” he mumbles. 

It had been a close call, the scare almost causing him to wreck the picture. The idea of his work coming  _ thisclose _ to being ruined makes him scowl. 

_ If it's Sitwell complaining about Felicia again, I might have to hurt him.  _

He's already preparing his argument for why it is absolutely  _ not  _ his fault that Felicia’s terrorising the O’Toole’s chihuahua-- _ get a real dog for God’s sake _ \--when he pulls open his door. 

“Bucky,” he says in surprise. 

“Uh, hi.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is probably a bad idea. 

Correction: it's definitely a bad idea if the way Steve’s staring at him is any indication. 

“I tried calling,” Bucky says awkwardly, as though that will excuse him for showing up here uninvited.

“My phone’s off,” Steve tells him. There's a beat of silence as Steve stares at him. “How’d you get in here?” he asks. 

“Oh. Stoner lookin’ kid let me in. Told him I was a delivery guy.” Bucky holds up the bag of takeout as evidence. He'd bought Indian as a peace offering. 

“That’s probably Peter. His parents are in a trial separation,” Steve says absently. 

More silence, and Bucky is seriously considering just turning around and walking away. This is awkward enough without him standing outside Steve’s apartment like some kind of waif. 

Steve’s eyes widen, almost as though he can hear Bucky’s thoughts, and he takes a hasty step back.

“Uh, please, come in.”

It’s oddly formal, and Bucky feels himself flush slightly.

“I’m sorry for just showin’ up,” he says uneasily. “I just… I thought maybe we could talk.”

To his surprise, Steve smiles, his eyes lighting with mischief. Leading the way to the living room, Steve takes a seat on the couch. He’s still moving gingerly, Bucky notices. His ribs must still be hurting.

“Really? About what?”

Bucky puts the takeout bag on the coffee table, and begins unpacking. He’d gotten aloo gobi, butter chicken, cham-cham, and lamb kebabs; panic had him trying to get a little bit of everything. 

“Um… about…” Bucky flounders for a moment. Again, he can’t help but marvel at how Steven Rogers has reduced him to a stuttering mess once again.

“You kissing me?” Steve looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Way I hear it, it wasn’t much of a kiss.”

This time Steve doesn’t try to hide his amusement; his laugh fills the room, and it’s such a big sound, happy and honest. Bucky wants to catch it on his tongue.

“Did I say that?”

“Want me to check my texts?”

Whatever Steve sees in his expression makes the laughter in his eyes dim slightly. He leans forward--wincing slightly--to look earnestly at Bucky.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… like, hurt your feelings.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to smile now. Steve’s an endearing mix of awkward and serious, and it’s clear that he is sorry. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He wants to tack on that maybe he’ll have a chance to change Steve’s mind about it, but bites the words back. 

Bucky wants it to be a surprise.

And also, maybe when Steve doesn’t have his arm in a sling. That hadn’t worked out too great the last time.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, and it’s nice. Bucky has gotten used to Wanda and Pietro’s chatter, but the quiet is soothing. He can feel himself relaxing; every now and again, he and Steve will catch each other’s eye, and smile. 

It’s comfortable and effortless and he realises that he could do this every night.

Once again, it occurs to Bucky that he’s got it bad. 

Funny thing is, he doesn’t really mind.


	14. Chapter 14

“It’s good to have you back, Rogers.”

“Thank you, sir,” Steve says sheepishly.

God, this is always his least favourite part of getting back to his daily routine after he’s been sick. The questions, although generally well meaning, do nothing more than embarrass him.

Now, no-nonsense Nick Fury is checking him out, as though waiting for him to keel over or something. Steve’s just glad he hasn’t run into Thor. The enormous man had apparently been extremely indignant on Steve’s behalf after hearing about the mugging.

So after smiling and reassuring some of his colleagues that he  _ really  _ is fine, Steve makes his way to class. The kids excitable chatter will be soothing after the quiet of his apartment.

“Rogers! Wait up.”

The sound of his name being called almost has him sagging in exasperation. Goddamn it, why can’t he walk five steps without someone nagging him about his health?

Only, instead of coming face to face with a concerned coworker, he sees Tony striding towards him. He comes to an abrupt halt in front of Steve, and gives him an expectant look.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands. “I've been looking for you all over the place.”

And for some fucked up reason, Steve finds himself grinning. He holds his cast up for Tony's inspection. 

“What are you showing me that for?” Tony asks. “D’you want me to sign it or something?” Still, despite his dismissive tone, Steve sees the way Tony gives him a quick once over. 

_ See, this I can deal with.  _

At ease with Tony’s assholish behaviour, Steve jerks his head in the direction he was headed. 

“Walk with me.”

Tony gives a little huff, but follows him anyway. While they walk, Steve’s rummaging in his bag for the sketches of pepper. Finally, he pulls them out, and passes them over to Tony for his inspection. 

The one on top is Steve’s favourite. It's cheesy as hell, but he figured that was okay. 

In the picture, Pepper is taking a big bite of pizza. And beneath it is the caption “You got a pizza my heart.” The letters appeared to be oozing cheese, just for effect.

Leafing through them silently, Tony takes a moment to study them. The usual snark is absent, and Steve muses that this is the most serious he's ever seen Tony. Much to his own surprise, he realises that he's actually nervous. 

“Disgustingly cheesy,” Tony says decisively. “They're perfect.”

Instant relief. Steve grins, pleased with the reaction. 

“That's great,” he says. “These are all rough, so which one d’you want me to spruce up for ya?”

“All of them.”

“What?” His mouth is hanging open, Steve knows, but he can't help it. 

“I want all of them,” Tony enunciates carefully. “What, are you deaf too?”

“In my right ear,” Steve shoots back, not too surprised to back down. 

“Pfft, figures,” Tony mutters. “Look, I want all of ‘em, okay? They'll make Pepper smile and when Pepper smiles, I smile. Do ‘em fancy.”

Steve splutters in spite of himself. 

“There's not gonna be enough time,” he protests. They've arrived outside his class, and he can hear the kids talking and laughing. 

“Well, you should've thought about that while you were dragging your heels.” Tony presses the sketches to Steve’s chest before sauntering off. “I want them done after Christmas. No excuses!”

Glaring after Tony, Steve spends a moment ruing the day he'd met the man. Still, he's got a class to teach, so he needs to pull himself together. 

As soon as Steve walks into the classroom, he's greeted by a chorus of excited voices. 

“--heard you got hurt--”

“--know who did it--

“--talk to the cops--”

“--get ‘em back--”

“Woah, woah!” Steve holds his hands up, trying and failing to keep a smile off his face. “I'm fine, everybody. Just my left arm, so that means I can still put you to work.”

Half-hearted groans at that, and then a hand shoots up into the air, waving about excitedly. 

“Yes, Pietro?”

“Can we sign your cast?”

Looking from Pietro’s excited expression to the other kids, who were now wide eyed, Steve gives it only a moment’s thought. 

“Sure.”

Bad idea. The kids are shoving out of their seats, and Steve has to raise his voice to be heard over the sudden din. 

“No, not all at once. Just, uh, gimme a sec to figure out how we're gonna do this.”

It takes a few minutes to organise them, and in that time, Steve forgets about everything. They spend most of the lesson blotting out the pristine white of his cast with a myriad of colours. Stick men, smiley faces, and names cover his arm by the time they're done. 

By the time the kids leave, taking their laughter and markers with them, Steve remembers again why he'd chosen to go into teaching. 

_ I really do like kids.  _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

They're still stuck on theory, and it's all Bucky can do not to bang his head into the desk. All around him, kids are answering questions, explaining the what, why, and where of a carburetor.

What really strikes him is how young they are. Their laughter comes loud and easily, and they seem to soak up what they're taught. 

Erik Selvig, their instructor, is a bit of an eccentric, and doesn't believe in waiting for students to put up their hands. He picks people to answer his questions at random; some classes he’ll do all the talking, and in others he'll spend most of their time asking questions. 

It's nerve wracking. 

Luckily, though, today is one of those days where Selvig is content with the sound of his own voice. 

“... increase the oxygen intake, and then  _ vroom _ !” Selvig says, waving his arms about for emphasis. 

Some of the kids laugh; Bucky sinks lower into his seat. 

A few minutes later, and they're wrapping things up. Selvig gives them reading to do--“Chapter fourteen. Or fifteen, I'm not sure.”--before he wanders off.

Conversations strike up almost immediately. Bucky keeps his head down, packing his things as quickly as he can. Only, his left arm isn't cooperating.

_ The arm’s still a prototype _ , the SHIELD doctors like to remind him.  _ There'll be glitches _ . 

One of those glitches involve the sometimes uncontrollable twitching of his fingers. 

Cursing under his breath, he has to wait for the person beside him to move before he can crawl under the table to pick up his pen. For a brief moment, Bucky considers just staying there until the room clears. 

“... seen that old guy in here?” someone whispers. “The one always wearing a glove. It's like he thinks he's in a Michael Jackson video.”

Snickers, and Bucky feels heat spread across his cheekbones. 

“There’s somethin’ weird ‘bout his arm,” another of the kids adds. “I’ve heard it making, like…  _ sounds. _ ”

“No way.”

“I swear to God. Sounds like gears or somethin’.”

Bucky can’t hear anymore. He gets off his knees, straightening to his full height, and the kids abruptly fall silent. Their faces are young and unlined, cheeks full. 

And they have no idea.

Abruptly weary, Bucky doesn’t say anything. He packs the last of his things, and leaves the room. Their soft voices follow him out the door.  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**How was class?**

**-** _ 18:36 _

Steve’s sitting at the kitchen table, desperately seeking a distraction. The sketches aren’t going well, and it’s driving him crazy. It's almost as though the knowledge of a deadline has made his hand dumb, the lines and curves of Pepper’s features impossible to capture. 

_ Friggin’ Stark. _

He takes a sip of his ginger tea--he’s caught a niggling cough that he just can’t shake--and waits for Bucky to reply.

That's been the best part of the last couple of days. Bucky had stopped freaking out about that kiss, and so they carried on texting as usual. His wry commentary about his home life make Steve laugh, but it hasn't escaped his notice that Bucky doesn't like talking about his classes. 

It worries him. 

True to form, it takes Bucky a long few minutes to text back. 

**Fine. Kids behave w u?**

**-** _ 18:49 _

Steve purses his lips. That's not really an answer. He types back, taking a moment to snap a quick picture.

**They drew on my cast. When are you guys moving on to practical work?**

**-** _ 18:52 _

Turning back to the sketch, Steve tries a few more lines, and then wrinkles his nose down at the page. 

_ Looks like ya drew it with your feet.  _

He snatches the drawing, crumpling it up, and tossing it in the direction of the trash can. It misses by a mile. Grumbling, Steve decides that tomorrow’s another day, and gets up, cell phone in hand. 

**U let them do that?**

**-** _ 19:01 _

It doesn't look  _ that  _ bad. Steve can't see the markings on the plaster, but has spent enough time staring at it to know that Wanda had written her name neatly in bright pink marker, while Pietro had scrawled his name by Steve’s knuckles, adding devil horns for good measure. Some kids had dotted their I’s with hearts, while others had drawn smiley faces in their O’s. 

**I like it.**

**-** _ 19:03 _

After a brief pause, he sends another text. 

**You still haven't told me about your class.**

**-** _ 19:04 _

He worries at his lower lip while he waits for a reply. Steve knows Bucky probably won't appreciate him pushing it, but something’s clearly bothering him. And the man’s just too damn stubborn to talk about it.

**Hate it.**

**-** _ 19:07 _

Steve blinks in surprise. Okay, he hadn't thought that Bucky had been having the time of his life, but for him to say that he  _ hates  _ it? 

**Why? What happened?**

**-** _ 19:08 _

It takes too long for Bucky to reply. Impatient and worried, Steve calls him. 

A heavy sigh greets him as soon as Bucky picks up the phone.

“You're a pain in the ass, y’know that?”

“What d’you mean, you hate your class? What happened?”

Distantly, Bucky can hear Bucky murmuring a quick, “I’ll gotta take this,” to someone before he continues in a low voice.

“I don’t really wanna talk about this--”

“Tough,” Steve huffs, even though there’s nothing he can really do to make Bucky tell him what’s going on. He softens his tone. “I’m just kinda worried about you.”

“Dumbass,” Bucky mutters. “You’re the one goin’ around getting your ass kicked, catching pneumonia, and  _ you’re _ worried about  _ me _ .”

“That’s right. Now spill.”

A brief hesitation, and then Bucky is telling him haltingly, “I feel… It’s just… It’s weird. I feel like I don’t belong. They’re all so young.”

Steve struggles to find the words to say to comfort him. It’s not easy being the odd one out, and Bucky’s bound to stand out because of his age alone. And it’s not just that; his face is lined with weariness.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says lamely. “But you’re wrong. You do belong there. And it’s so great that you’ve gone back to school, Buck. So many people wouldn’t have it in ‘em to--”

“Stop. Please?” Bucky interrupts. “I-I really don’t… Can we talk about something else?”

“Fine. Just promise me one thing.”

“For God’s sake, Rogers--”

“Just one thing,” Steve insists.

“I won’t quit,” Bucky says, resigned. It makes Steve smile, the way Bucky sometimes seems to read his mind. Even though the cliche makes his teeth hurt, Steve sometimes feels like they’ve known each other forever.

Silence as they just listen to each other breathe. 

_ God, we’re embarrassing. _

“So what d’you wanna talk about?” Steve asks, finally breaking the quiet. His voice is still hushed.

Bucky makes a little humming sound as he thinks about it. “How’re your ribs feelin’?”

“Ugh. Better, but still not great. Felicia pounced on me this morning.”

“That damn cat is the spawn of satan,” Bucky tells him.

“Don’t you start on my cat,” Steve huffs back. And then they’re off, arguing good naturedly about whether or not Felicia is in fact trying to kill him.

“I wish you were here,” Steve says without thinking.

_ Shit. _ He’s immediately embarrassed; he stammers out an apology, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft laugh.

“Me too.”

Relief, and a kind of delight that leaves him breathless. 

“You, uh… You wanna come over sometime?” Steve asks shyly. He's already bracing himself for a refusal, and so Bucky’s answer has him beaming. 

“Friday night?” he suggests. “We can catch a movie or somethin’.”

“That… I mean, yeah. I-I'd like that.” He's cringing. God, he's stammering like a friggin’ virgin. 

They spend a few more minutes talking before finally saying good night. The whole time, Steve hadn't been able to calm the excited fluttering of his heart, or keep the wide grin off his face. 

_ ‘Cause I'm goin’ on a date with Bucky Barnes.  _


	15. Chapter 15

Steve is going to be sick. It's all a matter of when at this point. His stomach is churning uneasily, and he's sweating. 

_ ‘Cause I'm goin’ on a date with Bucky Barnes.  _

Doubt had started to crowd his brain, almost as soon as he'd woken up the morning after they'd talked on the phone. Because what if this wasn't a date? What if he's just drowning in an ocean of  _ you-fucking-wish _ , and Bucky just wants them to hang out as friends?

_ Oh, God. I'm an idiot. A sad, desperate idiot.  _

Who's gonna hurl. 

“Hey, Steve, you okay?” Sam leans around Peggy to get a look at him. “You've been real quiet.” He hears them, but it doesn't occur to him to answer. “Steve!” Sam says sharply. 

“Huh?” Steve gives his friends a blank look. 

_ What were they talking about? _

“Are you quite alright?” Peg asks. “You're terribly pale.”

“It-It's nothing.” Steve stares down at his knees, trying to remember the last thing he'd heard them say. He seizes on the topic immediately. “Boy, Trump really is an asshole, huh?”

Sam and Peggy share an amused look. 

“Yes, he certainly is,” Peggy agrees. “We'd reached that conclusion almost ten minutes ago.”

“Oh.” Steve sinks lower into his seat. 

“Keepin’ secrets?” Sam asks. He pulls out that  _ I'm-really-disappointed-in-you  _ expression that makes his students squirm. “I thought we were friends.”

He's normally immune to things like this, would have laughed it off if it wasn't the day of his  _ date  _ with  _ Bucky _ . Instead, he feels even worse. 

_ Friends tell each other things, Rogers.  _

“I'm goin’ on a date,” he blurts out, maybe a little too loudly. Steve can see Miss Potts and Mister Banner looking up in interest. 

_ Shit.  _

But Peggy and Sam don't seem to notice. As out of it as Steve is, he'd have to be completely blind to miss the triumphant smile Peg aims at Sam. 

“What did I tell you?” she murmurs. Holding out her hand, Peggy raises her eyebrows expectantly. 

It's only when he sees Sam press a twenty into Peggy’s palm that he realises what's going on.

“You made a  _ bet _ ?” he asks incredulously. That shakes him out of his misery somewhat, and he glares at them. “I thought we were friends,” Steve parrots back at Sam. 

Sam looks a little uncomfortable, but Peggy merely gives him a look. 

“We are. And this--” She tucks the money somewhere in her shirt, and misses the way Sam’s eyes nearly fall out of his head. “--was a  _ friendly  _ bet.” Peg looks up to smile at him. “I knew you could do it.”

“Dunno that I did,” he huffs. Pique over, Steve blows a wisp of hair out of his face. 

“What does that mean?” Sam asks. His eyes keep flickering over to Peggy. 

“Is it really a date?” Seeing the lack of comprehension on their faces, he continues, “What if it's just… a friend… thing. I mean, he didn't  _ say  _ date. It could just be two dudes hanging out.”

“Like you an’ me,” Sam suggests helpfully. 

“Exactly!” Steve waves a hand at the other man, glad that it's not just in his head. He ignores the way Sam’s lips twitch. 

_ Okay, I'm probably goin’ about this the wrong way, but whatever.  _

What's important is that he's  _ right.  _ This isn't a date, and he's gotten his hopes up for nothing. 

“Oh, that is utter bollocks,” Peggy says bluntly. “Really, Steven, I've seen how that man looks at you, and I can assure you, you are  _ not  _ just a friend. And you--” She aims a glare at Sam. “--don't encourage him.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, Sam allows his smile to escape. It's kind, and his expression is understanding as he tells Steve, “You're worrying over nothin’, man.”

“You don’t  _ know  _ that! How can you know that; I don’t even know that.”

“Yes, you do,” Peg says firmly. And when Steve opens his mouth to argue, she holds up a hand imperiously; his mouth snaps shut. “Do not ruin this for yourself,” she warns. “I swear to God, Steven, I will punch you square in the nose if you do.”

Peg looks like she means it, and he’s seen her throw a punch. Some guy had had the gall to grab her butt as she’d walked passed him. Seeming to react on instinct, Peggy had spun on her heel, and landed a right hook to his jaw.

The asshole had gone down like a rock.

So instead of arguing any more, Steve just nods.

“Yes, ma’am.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This is amazing.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

Bucky heaves a sigh, and turns to glower at Natasha. She’s leaning against his doorframe, watching as he tries to find something decent to wear. 

It’s not going well.

On his bed, Wanda and Pietro are overseeing proceedings too. Well, Pietro isn’t really paying attention; rather, he’s sprawled on the mattress, fiddling on Natasha’s tablet.

“Try the black one,” Wanda orders him. “With the buttons on the front.”

Doing as he’s told, Bucky holds the shirt up to his chest in front of the mirror. The only thing that really stands out is the scowl on his face. Wanda makes a disapproving noise, and that briefly transforms his expression into a smile.

_ My little fashionista. _

“Not that one. Try…” She pauses to peer into his closet. “Do you have something that _isn’t_ black?”

“No, honey,” Natasha drawls. “Your dad just never quite left his emo kid phase behind.”

He flips her off before rifling through his wardrobe some more. Wanda has a point; most of the stuff in here’s black, although he does find a couple things in grey, and even a white shirt. 

Judging by the looks on both Wanda and Natasha’s faces, they aren’t impressed.

With an exasperated huff, Natasha starts forward. She nudges him out of the way, and does her own inspection of his clothes. There’s the occasional mutter, some comment about him still dressing like a teenager, when she pulls out a black sweater and dark jeans. After a moment of consideration, she snatches the white shirt.

“And tie your hair back,” Nat tells him, shoving the clothes into his arms. To Wanda and Pietro, she adds, “C’mon, kids, let’s give your dad some time to get ready.”

They trail out of his room, but just before Wanda leaves, she darts back to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Then, she frowns.

“You should shave.”

Natasha’s laughter follows her out the door.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pacing back and forth in front of the theatre, Steve is trying desperately to remember what Peggy had said earlier. He likes Bucky, Bucky likes him. Easy.

And now, all he needs to do is actually start to believe it.

That’s a little harder.

_ Where is he?  _ Steve pauses to look around, ignoring the curious glances that a few passersby are giving him. He imagines that he looks a little frantic, and some distant voice warns him not to get too worked up.

_ This is not the time for an asthma attack. _

He’s resumed his pacing, and he’s just turned around to do another lap when he freezes. Because Bucky’s hurrying towards him, and… Steve kind of forgets to breathe for a second.

Bucky's as dressed up as Steve’s ever seen him. Steve spots a white shirt peeking out from beneath a black sweater, and over that, Bucky’s wearing a brown leather jacket. Dark jeans encase his long legs, and he's even tied his hair back. 

_ Oh, wow.  _

Taking a deep breath, Steve raises his hand in a wave. The answering smile on Bucky’s face makes him flush. 

_ This is very definitely a date.  _

His hands reaches up to straighten his hair, flattening the stubborn strands that refuse to cooperate. All the while, he’s aware of Bucky getting closer; it feels like his whole body is tingling.

_ You’re an idiot. _

“Hey,” Bucky says when he gets closer. Some of the tension ekes out of him when he sees that Bucky looks nervous too.

“Hi.”

They stand there for a minute, just staring at each other. It’s awkward and exhilarating, and Steve loves it. 

“D’you, uh… you wanna go in?”

“Yeah.”

Shuffling in alongside each other, they’re close enough that Bucky’s left hand brushes against Steve’s right. The cool metal sends shiver up his spine, and he can’t help flicking his gaze over to Bucky’s fingers. 

He can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to have those fingers in his hair.

When it happens again, and Bucky mutters an apology. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, and ducks his head automatically. But with his hair tied back, it doesn’t have the desired effect, and Steve can see the way his cheeks redden in embarrassment.

Steve frowns unhappily, at a loss for words. He knows Bucky doesn’t like talking about his arm, but Steve doesn’t want Bucky thinking that he has a problem with it.

“So what d’you wanna see? Please tell me you’re not gonna make me sit through one of those artsy movies where people just stare at each other.”

“What, and you’d rather go see something where they blow each other up?” Steve asks jokingly.

He realises his mistake a split second too late. 

“Oh, Jesus, Buck, I’m sorry. I-I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky tries to smile, but it comes across strained. They end up picking some mindless comedy. 

The whole time they’re in the darkened theatre, Steve is aware of Bucky beside him. And the whole time they’re sitting there, all Steve wants is to touch him.

He doesn’t.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Ruined everything. _

Walking out of the theatre with Steve, he’s sure to keep a careful distance between them. He’d seen the way Steve had reacted when he’d come into contact with the metal arm. A mixture of hurt and embarrassment had washed over him, and then things had gotten uncomfortable.

“God, that was awful,” Steve groans, echoing Bucky’s thoughts. “I swear, I would pay double--no, triple the cost of a ticket for Ben Stiller to  _ stop  _ making movies.”

Bucky snorts a laugh. In all honesty, he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the movie. But it’s not like he’s going to tell Steve that.

“Yeah, it was pretty painful,” Bucky agrees.

Something about his tone tips Steve off, because the next thing he knows, Steve’s grabbing his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. 

“C’mere. I wanna tell you something.”

He gives Bucky a sharp tug, clearly not willing to take no for an answer. They find a quiet spot outside, in a patch of darkness just outside the reach of the streetlights. 

“Okay, I just wanna get this outta the way.” Steve stands on his tiptoes, getting right in Bucky’s face. “I don’t care if you have a metal arm,” he says bluntly. “And I know that sounds insensitive, but it’s true.” Grabbing Bucky’s left hand, he holds it up, squeezing tightly. “ _ This _ \--” And he sort of waves their hands around for emphasis. “--doesn’t bother me.”

And there it is. That swooping feeling again. He licks his lips before giving in to a hesitant smile.

“You mean it?”

“I really do. So can we… stop being weird now?”

“We were bein’ kinda weird, huh?”

“So weird,” Steve agrees.

“Lemme buy you dinner?”

“Nah.” He gives Bucky an impish grin then, his bright eyes lighting up.”But maybe I’ll let you pay for dessert.”

“Okay.” The word comes out softer than he means it to, and he worries that he’s coming across as too serious. That’s the last thing he wants to do right now, after he’d wigged out about his arm.

But Steve doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he tugs on Bucky’s hand, and leads the way to the restaurant. 

And all Bucky can do is follow.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s blissfully quiet. The kids are asleep, and James is out on an actual date. Natasha takes a moment to enjoy the tranquility.

Until the sound of Clint’s guffaws break the stillness. She can’t help but smile. 

The last few weeks at work have been rough. The DA is looking to nab a team of ‘bodyguards’ on extortion, racketeering and attempted murder charges, but it’s been hard to pin anything on the bastards.

She hasn’t told Clint too much about it; it’d only make him worry, and Natasha doesn’t want that. Sometimes, she’s convinced that his smile--that one he reserves just for her--is the only thing keeping her sane.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she heads over to the living room. Clint is sitting cross legged on the couch, sniggering as a bunch of frat boys take turns punching each other in the dick. 

What it is, exactly, he finds so funny is a mystery to her, but Nat doesn’t mind. Taking a seat beside him, and settling her feet nonchalantly in his lap, she takes a sip of her wine as the next clip comes up. This one is a featurette of skateboarders landing on their heads.

Clint’s shoulders shake with laughter, and he looks over at her; there’s  _ her  _ smile, and for some  _ stupid _ reason, the sight has her tearing up.

“Hey, wh-what’s wrong?” Clint immediately reaches for the remote, and shuts off the TV. She feels guilty for the alarmed look on his face. “Why are you cryin’?” he continues as he pulls her into his lap.

This is the only time Natasha allows Clint this kind of proprietary--when they’re alone--and sometimes not even then. It’s hard to let her guard down. She’s  _ strong _ , damn it; she’s had to be. Letting herself lean on Clint means that she has to loosen her white-knuckled grip on control. 

Tonight, it doesn’t feel like she has a choice.

Burying her face in between his neck and shoulder, Natasha just focuses on the feel of Clint’s hands on her. He’s rubbing her back soothingly, not saying a word, just waiting for her to do what she needs to do, whether that’s to cry her heart out, or to pull away.

_ Safe _ , she reminds herself.  _ I’m safe. _

Gradually, Natasha can feel her body relaxing. Clint can feel it too, and a moment later, he speaks.

“You okay?”

She nods, pulls away from his chest, but stays on his lap. Hands twisting anxiously together, she mutters, “Sorry. I’m just… tired, I guess.”

“Is this about Bucky?”

Nat frowns at the question. That… had come out of nowhere.

“It’s okay if it is,” Clint tacks on hurriedly. “Well, maybe not  _ okay _ , but… I get it. I mean, you two have a history, and it’s completely natural to get jealous that he might--”

“Woah, wait,” Natasha interrupts. “Jealous? What are you talking about?”

He seems at a loss for words, and it’s then that Natasha realises what the problem is. 

“This is what’s been bugging you,” she says softly. “You think I’m--” She searches for the word. “-- _ pining _ for James?” 

“No, it’s not… It’s just…” Clint looks desperately uncomfortable, and so Natasha scoots off his lap to give him space. His hands are twisting anxiously, and he’s staring at his feet.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Natasha doesn’t push, though; she’s patient when she has to be.

“Thing is, he-he’s the father of your kids,” Clint begins. “He’ll always be part of your life, have that connection with you. I mean, he can pack up and move to Kolkata, but you’ll always have a piece of him with you, and--”

“Clint, stop.” Natasha holds her hands up to half the flow of words. “It-It’s not like that. What James and I had, it’s nothing-- We were children.”

“And now you have children.” He draws a deep breath, and then rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I--God, that’s not what I meant.” 

Reaching out, Natasha squeezes his hand. His fingers are trembling slightly.

“I need you to listen to me, okay?” She waits until he nods, frowning when he still won’t look at her. “You and me? What we have is the most  _ real _ , most  _ important _ thing in my life. Nothing has ever come close.” Clint opens his mouth to interrupt, but Nat doesn’t let him, her voice fierce. “So don’t you  _ dare _ think, for even a second, that I’d want  _ anyone _ but you. Understand?”

Finally, Clint looks up.  _ Her  _ smile is playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now turn the TV back on; let’s watch those idiot’s knock the snot outta each other.”


	16. Chapter 16

“... then this one time at catechism--”

“Wait, wait,” Bucky interrupts. “You got beat up at church? How the hell d’you get that right?”

Steve snickers, liking the way Bucky’s looking at him. Amusement and fondness and a touch of disbelief are there in his expression, and it makes Steve feel warm. 

“My Ma always said I could probably start a fight in a monastery,” he admits. “But I wasn't even doin’ anything.” Bucky scoffs incredulously at that. “It's true! I just pointed out that Jesus was wondering around all over the place with twelve other fellas, so something must’ve been up.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wish. If Hank Reynolds hadn't broken my nose, my Ma woulda tanned my hide when Sister Bernice told her.”

“And that's how you got out’ve trouble,” Bucky guesses. “You were already black an’ blue.”

“Nah. She was never one for corporal punishment.” Steve smiles at the memory. “Although, I think she might've made an exception that Sunday.”

“Sounds like you two are close. D’you see her often?”

“I try get to her every week. Not like she's gonna yell at me for takin’ too much time between visits.” Bucky gives him a curious look, so he admits, “She passed... a couple years ago.”

“Oh, fuck, Steve. I’m--God, I'm so sorry.” 

This time Bucky reaches out, taking Steve’s uninjured hand across the table. It feels nice, and Bucky's skin is warm. 

“Yeah, me too.” He runs his thumb over Bucky’s fingers. “It’s been a while, though. Hurts less than it used to. I--I miss her is all.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Steve can’t help but give a self-deprecating laugh.

“Sorry, this isn’t great first date talk.” 

“I don’t mind. I like--I like getting to know you.” Bucky does that thing where he ducks his head, but with his hair tied back he settles for lowering his eyelashes to hide his expression. He looks… shy. Something inside Steve’s chest catches.

Clearing his throat, Steve asks, “What about your folks? Where are they?”

“They’re down in Jersey.” Steve wrinkles his nose instinctively, and Bucky laughs. “Retired there. I grew up in New York, went to boarding school in Philly.”

“You went to boarding school?”

“Yup. ‘Parently, I was a bit of a handful.” His words are light, but there’s a slightly cynical twist to his lips. “And then, after I graduated, I joined the army.”

“Did you want to?”

“I didn’t  _ not _ want to. Just… didn’t know what to do with myself after high school. And you know how persuasive those army recruiters can be.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says seriously. “I lost count of how many times they came close to breakin’ my door down askin’ me to enlist.”

Bucky laughs, and any trace of bitterness disappears.

“Their loss. You’d’ve made one hell of a soldier.”

They’re interrupted by the waiter clearing the table. He’s cute, and he gives Bucky an appreciative once-over. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks, making like Steve isn’t even there.

“Uh, sure. You want dessert, Stevie?”

Lips quirking at the disgruntled look on the waiter’s face, Steve shakes his head. “I’m good with coffee.”

“You said I could buy you dessert.” Bucky is dangerously close to pouting.

“I’m sure I can get my sugar somewhere else,” Steve says with a cheeky wink. He’s just kidding around but, to his surprise, Bucky… blushes?

_ Holy shit. _

Clearing his throat noisily, Bucky turns back to the waiter. “I’ll have the, uh, the…” He pauses to check the menu again. “The chocolate brownies with ice cream. Please.”

“Sure.” The waiter heads off, but neither he nor Bucky pay any attention. Instead, Steve is absolutely fascinated by the colour that still lingers along Bucky’s cheekbones.

He really, really hadn’t been expecting this.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky can  _ feel _ Steve watching him. It shouldn’t be a big deal; he’s having his dessert, Steve’s sipping at his coffee.

Only, conversation has ground to a halt, and there’s this hum of tension in the air. Steve’s eyes are on his mouth, on the way Bucky licks his lips to capture any errant crumbs of chocolate.

It’s distracting as  _ fuck _ .

Although, if he’s being entirely honest, he knows he’s not exactly helping matters either. Unable to stop himself, Bucky finds himself dragging his tongue slowly along his bottom lip, or taking just a little too long licking the ice cream off his spoon.

He just really likes the look on Steve’s face. No one’s looked at him like that in what feels like forever.

Which isn’t to say he hasn’t had the occasional hook up since coming home. But those had been… kinda like eating cold pizza; it tastes okay but only because you don’t have much else in the way of options. It was more about satisfying the hunger than achieving any actual satisfaction.

The way Steve’s looking at him, though… It’s like whatever he sees is making his mouth water. 

_ I really shouldn’t be thinking like this. _

It’s just… God, he wants to see that expression on Steve’s face all the time.

“Stop it,” Steve murmurs.

“Huh?”

“That thing… that you’re doing. With your mouth.” 

Bucky feels a flush of heat spread through his body, and his throat goes dry. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

_ We really gotta get outta here. _

“Uh, d’you-d’you see the waiter? We should--D’you wanna get the bill?”

Luckily Steve seems to share his sense of urgency. They flag down the waiter, and waste a few minutes arguing about who gets to pay. Bucky finally gives in, but promises himself that he’ll find a way to get the money back to him. 

But later. Right now he needs to be alone with Steve. 

The anticipation of it all is sliding across Bucky’s skin, and his imagination is running away from him. He can picture Steve’s skin flushed and his lips parted, and--

“Buck? You still with me?” 

They're still in the restaurant, but Steve is already on his feet, a quizzical look on his face. It only lasts for a few seconds before realisation dawns. 

“Let's go,” Steve tells him gruffly. 

It all seems to happen on autopilot. They leave the restaurant; Bucky hails a cab, and Steve gives the driver his address. They very carefully refrain from touching. Instead, they seem to take turns getting caught staring at each other. 

Finally--fucking  _ finally _ \--they pull up outside Steve's apartment. Bucky somehow manages to find it in himself to act like normal, paying the driver with a polite murmur of thanks. They step out, quiet as they watch the cab drive off. 

One beat, and then another. It's cold. Rather than calming him down, it makes Bucky’s heart beat faster. 

Steve must be cold, though. 

_ Dumbass, think with your brain _ , he chides himself. 

Turning to Steve, he says, “We should--” 

But Steve doesn't give him the chance to finish. Instead, he's stepped forward into Bucky’s space, and those long, slender fingers are on his cheeks, the cast on his left hand rough against Bucky’s skin, and soft lips are ghosting over his. 

_ I can't breathe.  _

It's not really a kiss; it feels more like a kind of prelude, a question:  _ is this okay? _

So much better than okay. 

Bucky ducks his head, bringing their mouths back together. Soft, soft… slow. A full body shiver seems to go through Steve, and it brings Bucky back to himself. 

“Inside,” he forces out. “We should get inside.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve draws him down into another whisper soft kiss. His hands are moving up into Bucky’s hair, lightly scratching at his sculp. 

“We're both gonna freeze our asses off,” Bucky tries. Steve's lips have moved down to his jaw, and he shudders when he feels the warm flick of a tongue. 

_ God, to feel that on my cock… _

No. Focus. Can't very well fuck on the sidewalk. 

Shaking himself, Bucky pulls Steve’s hands away from his face. 

“Please? I want you on a bed.”

And of course, those are the magic words. Smile bright, Steve tugs him toward the front entrance, and Bucky experiences a sense of deja vu. Steve isn't physically strong enough to move him, but he has a kind of magnetism that Bucky thinks will have him following Steve wherever he wants to go. 

The thought sends a jolt through him. 

_ Way too early for that _ . 

Stairs, doorways, someone leaving an apartment with a pair of shoes in their hands. It doesn't register, and Bucky wishes that they could just move faster. 

He sees Steve’s fingers fumbling with the keys to his apartment. For some reason, the sight sends a flood of  _ want  _ through him. Nudging Steve’s hands aside, Bucky unlocks the door, and leads the way inside. 

Barely three steps in, and his jacket’s hitting the floor. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Okay, this is happening. This is really happening.  _

Steve wonders if that whole pinch to test if you're dreaming thing really works. Because Bucky is here, in his apartment, and his fingers are working at the buttons of his shirt. 

And all Steve can do is stand there, leaning against the door, and watching. Inches of skin are revealed, too quick and not quick enough. 

_ What’m I supposed to do with all that?  _ Steve thinks hazily. He's torn between grabbing his sketch pad, and dropping to his knees. 

But then Bucky’s fingers halt their movements. Steve scowls, and looks up to find Bucky watching him intently. 

“This ain't a spectator sport, Rogers,” he drawls. “You wanna maybe take somethin’ off?”

That's all it takes to snap him out of it. Steve feels his cheeks heat as self-consciousness rushes over him. His arms fold across his chest defensively before he can hold back the gesture. 

_ Great work, _ he thinks bitterly to himself as Bucky frowns at him.  _ Couldn't have killed the mood better if I'd showed him pictures of Ma.  _

He’s about to apologise, but then Bucky hands start moving again. More of the buttons come undone, and broad shoulders are shrugging the pale material off. 

Steve knows he's staring. Lightly tanned skin, taut muscles, and horrific scarring on the left side of Bucky’s body. Bucky feigns nonchalance, but Steve can see his discomfort in the set of his jaw, the way he won't quite meet Steve’s eyes. 

“You're beautiful,” Steve murmurs after a few seconds.  _ And brave _ , he adds silently. 

A slightly cynical laugh escapes Bucky then, but he doesn't argue. 

“What I am,” he says softly, “is horny. Now, you comin’ over here, or do I have to come get you?”

The mental image of Bucky tossing him over his shoulder makes Steve grin faintly. His fingers tug at the edges of his sweater, and with a deep breath, he pulls the material over his head. 

Still feeling a little nervous, Steve slowly makes his way over to Bucky.

Peeking up at the other man, he allows his fingertips to trace over Bucky’s torso. He can hear a sharp inhalation, and then something murmured too low for him to hear.

Steve doesn’t like that.

“Uh, can I ask you a favour,” he says, pulling away slightly. “I’m kinda… deaf in my right ear. So, uh, if you have anything to say, you think you could say it in my left?”

“Anything to say, huh? Like what?” Bucky’s got this teasing smile in place, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, and  _ dear God _ , that look is lethal. 

He leans forward, breath hot against Steve’s ear, and it makes him shiver. “Something like, how I wanna see you on your knees? Or how I wanna bend you over this couch.” Bucky hands settle on his hips, tugging him closer, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Or maybe you wanna be sure to hear ‘bout how I want you to fuck me?”

_ Okay, that’s enough talking. _

Their kisses earlier had been bone melting, lazy and hot, but Steve wants more this time. He presses his mouth against Bucky’s, sliding his tongue along the seam until Bucky parts his lips on a groan. 

Hands fumble at clothes, clutch at skin, and when Bucky’s palms slide into his loosened jeans, it’s all Steve can do not to jump him.

It’s almost more than he can take, bordering on sensory overload, and he just wants them to be naked. 

_ Jesus, why aren't we naked? _

A pitiful whimper escapes him, and Bucky laughs.

“Bedroom?” he mutters. 

“Entrance fee,” Steve whispers back. “Take your pants off.”

“Smartass.” One of Bucky’s fingers dip to slide over his entrance, and the feel makes Steve hiss in a breath. He presses back against that searching finger. If they don't hurry the fuck up, he's going to lose it right then. 

Not willing to wait for Bucky to do it, Steve reluctantly releases the hold he'd had around Bucky’s neck, smoothing his palms down Bucky's chest towards his zipper. 

“What ya doin’, Stevie?” Bucky asks. There's a teasing lilt to his voice, and it makes Steve want to turn it into something else. The thought of Bucky’s voice hoarse from begging has Steve dropping to his knees. His ribs protest, but he ignores the discomfort.

“Shut up,” he huffs. The jeans are so goddamn tight and his friggin’ cast isn’t helping either; Steve can't help but mutter an impatient curse. “What's with these damn things? Gonna need a goddamn can opener.” 

Bucky barks out a laugh, but is cut off when Steve finally manages to undo the top button and slide down the zipper. 

Lust and triumph lash him, and Steve tugs Bucky’s underwear down. It's been awhile since the last time he did this, and nervousness tries to intrude on the moment. 

Flicking his gaze up at Bucky’s face, the apprehension dissipates. Bucky  _ wants _ this. He's sure to keep eye contact as he leans forwards; his cheek brushes against Bucky’s cock as he moves to press soft, sucking kisses to the vee of his hipbone. 

“Tease,” Bucky accuses breathlessly. 

“Hmmm? You're gonna have to speak up, Buck.” 

He can taste salt and sweat, and it makes him hard. Attention still centered on Bucky, on moving slowly down his left inner thigh, Steve reaches down to adjust himself through his pants. 

“I said--” Bucky cuts himself off to take a shuddering breath when Steve decides to experiment with his teeth. “--you're a fuckin’ tease.”

“Oh, that wasn't teasing,” Steve tells him, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “This--” And he slowly drags his tongue from the base of Bucky’s cock, all the way to the tip. “--is teasing.”

“Gonna get you back for this,” Bucky rasps. 

“Promises, promises.” But Steve is done with talking for right now. Well,  _ he’s  _ done with talking. Doesn’t mean Bucky has to stop. “Tell me what you like,” he murmurs before taking Bucky into his mouth.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ . That. I like that a lot.”

Encouraged, Steve mouths along Bucky’s cock, sliding up to run his tongue beneath his foreskin. He grins up at Bucky, enjoying the way his head falls back, the way lips part on a sharp breath. They’re red and shiny from where he’s been biting them.

_ God, he’s so beautiful. _

Steve parts his lips to take Bucky deeper, moving slowly until he finds a rhythm. He bobs back and forth, hollowing his cheeks, swirling his tongue around the tip of Bucky’s dick. Dimly, Steve’s aware that there’s a hand in his hair, and spit is running down his chin.

Time passes in a blur; Bucky’s straining against him, his hips thrusting, little grunts tearing free from his throat.

He thinks he can come just listening to those sounds.

“Fuck, Steve, I-I… Jesus, don’t st-stop.”

A thrill runs through Steve, and he drops a hand back down to his own crotch. His cock is aching, but he can’t stop touching Bucky. Precum is leaking into his mouth; it’s salty and bitter, and he wants more. Another strangled noise escapes Bucky, and Steve pulls back.

“Louder.”

“N-no, don’t--Why’d you stop?” Bucky is bordering on incoherent now, breaths coming unevenly.

_ Good. _

“I wanna hear you.” He suckles Bucky’s tip gently before moving away again. He smiles as he watches the way Bucky tries to follow his mouth. “When you come, I wanna hear you.”

For a second, Bucky’s eyes seem to clear. He licks his lips.

“You’re a kinky little shit, huh?” A soft laugh, breathless. “I like it.”

Bucky’s hand in his hair tightens, and he gives a gentle tug. Leaning forward, Steve willingly parts his lips, swallowing Bucky down. Eager now, Steve bobs his head while he cups himself through his pants.

“Jesus Christ, St-Steve,” Bucky stammers. “Take me… deeper. Fuck,  _ please _ .”

There’s no more talking now, just laboured breathing, and the wet sounds of Bucky fucking Steve’s mouth. Finally, Bucky’s cock touches the back of his throat, and it’s all over. 

Crying out Steve’s name, Bucky comes. His whole body shudders, and his grip on Steve’s hair borders on pain. It’s that little bite of discomfort that has Steve experiencing his own climax. Rubbing his cock through his jeans, and swallowing Bucky’s release, he can’t think through the pleasure. 

Reluctantly, Steve pulls back. His jaw aches kinda aches and his ribs hurt too, but when he gets a look at Bucky’s face--abruptly at eye level since it seems his legs can’t hold him up any longer--he decides it’s worth it.

_ So totally worth it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt it was about time I earned that big red E.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got distracted last night and didn't update. What the hell, me?

_ Holy Christ. _

_ We gotta do that again. _

Bucky’s legs feel like jelly, and all he can do is stare at Steve. His lips are swollen, and there, at the corner of his mouth…

Leaning forward, Bucky licks at the droplets of cum clinging just beneath Steve’s bottom lip. A shiver rolls over him.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve whispers.

“Uh-huh.” He’s not really paying attention as his lips move along Steve jaw, inhaling the scent of his skin.

“You think you could maybe… get my inhaler?”

It’s only then that he notices how Steve is struggling for breath. Alarm floods him, and he’s up on his feet.

_ Fuckin’ idiot. Thinkin’ with your dick while Steve can’t even breathe. _

He rushes into Steve’s bedroom, and manages to find the blue inhaler where it was before. Muttering under his breath, he hastily hands the thing to Steve. 

A few moments of silence as Steve puffs on the inhaler; Bucky watches him anxiously.

Steve starts laughing.

“You should see your face,” he snickers. 

“That’s not funny. Last thing I need is for you to keel over ‘cause you sucked my dick.”

“Good way to go.”

“Jackass,” Bucky mutters. He get to his feet, and does up his zipper. Steve makes a disappointed noise that makes Bucky smirk. Stretching lazily, Bucky heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. He can hear Steve getting up behind him.

“So, uh… d’you… d’you wanna stay over? Or something?” Steve asks awkwardly. Bucky looks over to see that Steve’s cheeks have turned that luscious shade of red.

“I want to,” Bucky tells him. “But I was planning on takin’ Pietro and Wanda ice skating in the park in the morning. Y’know, while it’still okay for ‘em to hang out with their dad.” 

“Oh, okay. That’s cool. I mean, I--”

“But… I was gonna angle for a second date.”

“Wh-what? You mean it?”

Bucky frowns at him. That really shouldn’t come as a surprise, not just because of the blow job, but… 

“You know I like you, right?” 

The words come out in a rush, and Bucky feels his own cheeks heat up. Fuckin’ ridiculous, two grown ass men acting like teenage girls. 

It’s strangely exhilarating.

“That-that’s good,” Steve stammers. “I mean, I like you too. A lot.” 

Grinning at Steve chagrined expression, Bucky steps forward to pepper kisses across his face. It’s lame and it’s cheesy and Bucky doesn’t care.

“You’re kind of a sap,” Steve murmurs against his lips.

“Shut up,” Bucky huffs back, even though it’s true.

And he doesn’t even care.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve sleeps like the dead. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so tired, with adrenaline and excitement and happiness buzzing around in his head for about five minutes last night before knocking him out cold.

The only thing that would’ve made it better was if Bucky had fallen asleep beside him.

_ One thing at a time. _

Most important things to figure out right now: what woke him up, and how quickly can he get rid of it?

Forcing his eyes open with a low grumble, Steve squints around his bedroom. On his nightstand, his cell phone is buzzing.

“Ugh.” 

_ Maybe it’s Bucky. _

That’s enough to get him moving. Wrestling with the covers, Steve scoots towards his phone, and snatches it up. 

“Hello?” he answers without checking the caller ID. 

“You can’t still be in bed,” Peggy says without preamble. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“I had a late night,” he tells her. His words are slightly muffled, since he’d flopped face first back onto his pillow at the sound of Peg’s voice.

“Oh, that’s right, you had a date last night.” There’s no way she’d have forgotten. “How did it go?” Her voice lowers to a teasing whisper, “Is he still there with you?”

“ _ Whoo! Get it, Rogers _ !”

Sam’s loud voice makes him flinch. God, Sam’s always been a morning person, the freak.

“What’re you guys doin’?” Steve asks. 

“I had roller derby practice, and Sam likes to pretend that he doesn’t enjoy watching women in short shorts wrestling.”

“It’s a great sport for strong women,” Sam protests.

“That it is, but that’s not why you enjoy it.”

“You two want me to leave you alone?” Steve asks wryly, cutting their argument short.

“Quite the opposite actually. We were hoping you would join us for breakfast.”  It takes all of Steve’s willpower to bite back a whimper. The idea of getting out of bed is not appealing. He says as much to Peggy. 

“Oh, come on,” she chides him, “I’ll get you a slice of apple pie. Gluten free, and everything.”

“Well, how can I say no to that?” Steve drawled.

“You don’t,” Peggy says smartly. She rattles off the address, and then hangs up with a cheerful, “See you.”

Dragging himself out of bed, shivering slightly, Steve heads into the bathroom. He spends a few minutes there, and briefly considers just crawling back into bed. 

_ Too cold for this shit _ , he grumbles internally.

Still, he wants to hear about how roller derby practice went, and whether Sam had successfully asked any of Peg’s teammates out. He can’t figure if he thinks that Sam is either very brave or very stupid. Those ladies are fierce.

It’s as Steve is pulling on his pants that he notices the faint bruising on his knees. 

The sight makes him grin.

And if Steve leaves his apartment with a slight bounce in his step, well… he’s alone, so no one’s the wiser.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam had somehow managed to talk Peggy into letting him choose the restaurant--no small victory--and he’d decided on a dingy looking diner that’d decided on a Jack of all trades approach to what it serves.

Dishes vary from sloppy joes to catering to the finickiest of health nuts. Sam likes it; you get all sorts of people in here: exhausted looking cab drivers, hipsters in their skinny jeans, construction workers in their baggy pants, professionals with their suits and smart phones.

It’s the perfect spot to people watch.

Even if the only person he’s really paying attention to is Peggy.

Her hair is pinned up, but a few tendrils have escaped. She’s shed her enormous coat, and is wearing a snuggly fitting black turtleneck; her lipstick is that familiar bright red.

Sometimes, it hurts to look at her.

“Keep an eye out for Steve, will you?” she says, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Huh?”

Peggy gave him an amused look. The corners of her dark eyes crinkle, and there’s a dimple in her left cheek. 

“Did I pull you from a daydream?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just a little distracted,” he replies, straightening in his seat across from her.

“Is she pretty?” Peg asks teasingly.

“You have  _ no idea _ .”

The words are said with just a little too much feeling, and Peggy’s eyes widen slightly. They stare at each other for a long moment. It’s easy--so, so easy--for Sam to forget where he is.

Sam opens his mouth, but he has no idea what he’s going to say. Before he can say anything stupid, though, he’s interrupted by the sound of Steve’s voice.

“Hey, guys,” he says brightly, a broad grin on his face.

For the first time in Sam’s memory, he’s not sure if he’s glad to see his friend. 

_ Not his fault you can’t get the goddamn words out. _

“Took you long enough to drag your sad self down here,” Sam says by way of greeting. He shifts over to allow Steve to take a seat before giving him an evil grin. “Although, I don’t think I’ve seen you this chipper in a while, Rogers.”

“What, it’s a beautiful day,” Steve protests.

“It’s thirty degrees outside,” Peg points out with a smirk.

Silence for a few seconds as Steve searches for a witty rejoinder. Nothing comes to him, and he pointedly lifts his menu up to cover his face.

“I’m not talking to you guys anymore,” he says loftily.

Sam and Peggy share a look, grinning, but there’s still  _ something _ there; a subtle shift had occurred earlier, and they both glance away quickly.

_ Oh, boy _ .

Signalling the waitress, he orders a large pot of coffee. He needs caffeine if things are going to be awkward.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright, so we’re gonna take things slow,” Bucky instructs, trying to sound stern. He’s not entirely sure how effective it is, since Pietro is bouncing on the balls of his feet, while Wanda primly readjusts her earmuffs.

_ Yeah, they’re not listening. _

Nat had offered to come with this morning, mentioning that he might need the help. And Bucky, in all his stubborn glory, had waved her off.

_ Big mistake. _

Because Pietro is bounding over to the rink, blithely unconcerned about how he blends in among all the other parka wearing kids, while Wanda stands on her tiptoes, talking Bucky’s ear off.

“How’d your date go last night?”

“Uh, pretty good,” Bucky says. He’s craning his neck in an effort to keep Pietro in sight, and wondering if he really should be talking about this with a ten year old. 

“Is Mr Rogers your boyfriend now?

_ Woah, woah, woah. _

Bucky looks down at Wanda with wide eyes, completely taken aback by the question. If it’d been from a grown up, Bucky would be convinced that they were fucking with him. But it’s not. It’s from his little girl, her expression earnest. 

“It’s… um, it’s a little early to tell,” Bucky tells her.

“Oh.” She frowns, and then nods. Apparently deciding to drop the subject, she looks around. “Where’s Pietro?”

_ Motherfuck… _

“C’mon,” he mutters. Taking Wanda firmly by the hand, he leads her toward the ice rink, urgency rushing over him. “Pietro!” he calls. “Pietro, where are you?”

People hastily move out of their way as Bucky shoulders his way through the crowd. His heart is beating fast, and he’s starting to sweat. Looking, looking, looking, but he can't  _ see _ Pietro anywhere. 

Panic is clutching at his throat. 

_ God, please, pleasepleaseplease. _

“Dad?”

Relief, and Bucky can actually  _ feel  _ his knees weaken. Pietro is looking up at him, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s taken ten years off Bucky’s life.

Still keeping a tight grip on Wanda’s hand, Bucky leans over to pull Pietro into a hug. 

_ Next time, you listen to Natasha _ , he tells himself. 

“Don't--” Bucky cuts off, swallowing passed the fear still wedged in his throat. He can feel Wanda and Pietro both staring at him, and works to pull himself together. “Don't fuckin’ wander off, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Pietro just nods; his face is pale, and Bucky curses himself for scaring the kid. 

“Dumbass,” Wanda huffs, aiming a kick at her brother’s shins. Her words, along with Pietro’s little yelp of pain washes away the last of Bucky’s panic. He casts his daughter a reproving look. 

“Sweetheart, don't kick your brother.” When that earns him nothing more than a sulky look and tightly crossed arms, Bucky has to hide a smile behind his hand. 

She's so much like her mother, it scares him sometimes. 

The rest of the afternoon passes without incident. Pietro tears off across the rink before racing back to where Bucky and Wanda are skating at a more sedate pace. Wanda uses the time her brother’s away to pepper Bucky with questions, asking him about the army, and school, and how he and Nat had met. 

“I saw your mom dancin’,” he confides as they move across the ice. He makes sure to let Wanda hold onto his flesh hand, knowing that the metal one was likely freezing, even with the glove. “As soon as she stepped off stage, I was asking her out.”

“And Mama said yes,” Wanda presses. 

“That’s right.” Bucky smiles fondly at the memory. He’d tried so hard to act cocky, but it was like Nat could see right through him. For a long minute after he’d tossed out that invitation, pretending he didn’t care, she’d just stared at him, taking his measure. By the time she’d said yes, Bucky had been ready to walk away with his tail between his legs.

“But now you’re going out with Mr Rogers.”

Her words give him pause. Bucky looks down to find her staring up at him, and he feels a faint tremor of apprehension. 

It’s not that he thinks Wanda will suddenly stop loving him, or something. Kids are pretty chilled about this kinda thing when you explain it to them, right?

_ Right? _

“Gimme a sec, huh? Let me find your brother, and I can talk to both of you about this.”

Pietro makes his way back to them after a minute or two, and Bucky gently tugs the kids off the ice. 

“We goin’ already?” Pietro asks plaintively.

“Uh, yeah, I’m kinda hungry,” Bucky hedges. “Let’s get some lunch, whatever you want.”

His words are met with enthusiasm, and they’re leaving the park. Bucky feels a mite guilty for resorting to bribery, but hopefully the kids’ mouths would be too full for them to ask questions.

After a brief argument over where they should go--Wanda wanted Pizza Hut, while Pietro wanted McDonalds--and a rock-paper-scissors grudge match, they end up at McDonalds. He orders, manages to persuade Pietro to  _ sit still and eat goddamn it _ before he broaches the subject.

“So, uh, Wanda… Wanda asked me something just now, and I figured we oughta talk about it,” Bucky begins nervously.

“We’re getting a dog?” Pietro burst out excitedly.

_ Oh, for… _

Taking a deep breath, Bucky shakes his head; Pietro’s expression falls, and his bottom lip sticks out like a diving board. Bucky makes a mental note to talk to Clint and Nat about a pet for the kids.

“You know that I went out with Ste--Mr Rogers last night, yeah?” Wanda and Pietro both nod. “And you also know that your mom and me were together for a while before I enlisted.”

Pietro heaves an impatient sigh, rolling his eyes; Wanda’s a little better about hiding her own exasperation, but Bucky can tell she wants him to get to the point.

“So I just wanted you to know that I date guys and girls,” Bucky finishes quickly. “And I wanted to find out if you had anything to ask me.”

The kids share that look, the one that suggests they’re having an entire conversation without saying a word. It’s unnerving sometimes, but Bucky doesn’t interrupt. Finally, they look back at him.

“Can we have ice cream?” Wanda asks.

For a second, Bucky doesn’t know what to say.

“You want… ice cream?” he echoes dumbly.

“It tastes better in the cold,” Pietro tells him.

“Yeah. Sure,” Bucky says shakily. He hands over ten bucks, and they scurry over to order. And all he can do is sit there, feeling oddly shaky. Pietro and Wanda had hardly blinked at his words, and the relief is huge.

Again, that happiness from this morning makes itself known. It’s intense and terrifying, and Bucky finds himself fighting back tears.

Maybe he can get his life together. He’s got his kids, he’s going to school, he  _ really _ likes Steve. 

Hope blossoms, and for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky doesn’t try to tramp it down.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner. I've been sick the last couple days and just a grumpy pants in general. Hope this makes up for it.

Steve has a secret, something he’s not even sure if Sam knows: he hates Christmas. Well, it’s not so much that he  _ hates _ it; he’d just be perfectly happy to skip the whole thing and get back to work. 

He’s pretty sure he does a good job of hiding his distaste for the holiday. Going through the motions--his Ma’s voice ringing in the back of his head--Steve puts up a tree and decorates his apartment; he goes to midnight mass, and buys presents.

The whole time, he’s completely miserable.

And this year is no different.

Muttering under his breath, Steve is wrestling with his Christmas tree. It’s a few days until the big day, and he’s been stalling in putting the damn thing up. There’s no one here to help him today. He's half convinved the damn thing is going to just topple over and kill him.

Peggy was already gone, spending the holidays with her folks in England, while Sam had flown down to Seattle. And Bucky…

A weary smile crosses Steve’s face before he can stop it. The truth is, Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen a grown man so excited about Christmas before. His eyes were bright last week as he’d gone over their plans for the kids, and the anticipation was palpable.  

He doesn’t have the heart to ruin it for Bucky.

So, like the mature and responsible adult he is, Steve’s avoiding his sort-of-but-he-really-has-no-idea-what-the-hell's-going-on boyfriend.

Which sucks on it’s own, but now he has to argue with a goddamn piece of dead wood for a holiday he doesn’t give a shit about with no help.

Close, he’s  _ so close _ to getting the thing upright when he hears a loud knock at the door. The noise startles him, his hand slips, and the damn tree lands on the floor. Steve is tempted to kick it.

Knowing that it’s probably just Mrs O’Malley with her Christmas cheer and her friggin’ snowman sugar cookies, Steve is tempted to just ignore it.

_ Maybe sic Felicia on her. _

“What d’you think?” he asks the cat from where she’s lounging on the couch. “Feel like scaring another one of the neighbours?”

All he gets in reply is a bored sounding meow.

Whoever’s at his door knocks again, and it somehow manages to sound aggressive. Steve figures that means Mr O’Malley has started hitting the eggnog.

Won’t be the first time.

_ The sooner you answer, the sooner she’ll go away. _

With that in mind, Steve steels himself to answer the door and placate the old woman.

Only, instead of staring into the kindly brown eyes of Mrs O’Malley, Steve comes face-to-chest with... Bucky. Who is glaring at him in a way that really shouldn’t be hot.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands.

_ Here we go. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Bucky’s been acting like a kid, he knows that, even without Clint and Nat teasing him about it. But whatever, this is his first Christmas at home since he enlisted, and he just… 

He wants it to be perfect.

It’s childish and it’s lame and he wants it so bad. No, it’s not about  _ want _ ; it’s about  _ need. _ He needs this to be a memory he can hold close, like the first time he saw Wanda and Pietro’s faces in the flesh; the way it’d felt to finally be home and away from all that sand and sun and death; the sense of home he gets whenever he’s with Steve.

Staring at the smaller man, Bucky works hard to hide his concern behind the vague irritation at Steve’s avoiding him. 

“I’ve been tryin’ to call you.”

A scowl appears on Steve’s face, and he looks around his apartment as though in search of his phone. He then releases an impatient huff, and steps aside, giving Bucky room to come in.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters. “I’ve been busy with… this.”

_ This _ turns out to be an upended Christmas tree. Bucky gives Steve a confused look, but is kept from asking anything by a fairly loud thump.

It’s Felicia, and she gives him an unimpressed look. He and Steve have been dating for almost a month, but his relationship with the cat still hasn’t improved.

_ Guess you gotta take the good with the bad. _

Not wanting Steve to catch him pulling faces at his cat, Bucky steps forward to right the tree. It takes him a few minutes to steady it, and when he steps back, he sees that Steve has taken a seat on the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest.

He looks sad.

Some tiny voice in the back of Bucky’s mind warns him that the answering wrench he feels in his chest is too much, too soon. He and Steve have only known each other for a couple of months; it can’t be  _ normal _ for him to hate the downward turn of Steve’s mouth this much.

Taking a seat beside his boyfriend--are they boyfriends? He thinks they are--and tentatively reaches out to take Steve’s hand. The pit in Bucky’s stomach eases slightly when Steve gives him a faint smile.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” The words are unconvincing, and Bucky feels a pang of hurt. It’s irrational, but it’s there.

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

Steve looks at him then. He’s biting at his lower lip, brows drawn together. Bucky’s eyes linger on his mouth before glancing away.

He feels Steve’s weight shifting on the couch as he moves to sit closer to Bucky. A tired sigh, and then the feeling of warmth along his side as Steve leans against him. His head rests on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Don’t like Christmas,” Steve says, voice almost too low for Bucky to hear.

“Okay.” After a brief pause, Bucky asks, “You wanna tell me why?”

“It’s gonna sound like I’m feelin’ sorry for myself.”

A disbelieving scoff escapes Bucky, and he doesn’t even feel bad about it. He pulls back ever so slightly to raise his eyebrows at Steve.

“I…” The fingers of his free hand are worrying at the hem of his shirt, and he doesn’t look at Bucky as he speaks. “My mom and me, it was always us on Christmas. Well, us and Felicia,” he adds with a smile.

“You’ve had her that long?” Bucky asks, surprised.

“She’s my mom’s,” Steve admits. “That’s, uh… That’s why I’m so neurotic ‘bout the cat food. Dumbass cat’s all I got left of her.”

Bucky silently vows that he’ll never say a bad thing about Felicia ever again. 

“And now that Ma’s gone,” Steve continues after a moment, “holidays just aren’t the same, y’know?”

It's on the tip of his tongue to apologise, but what's the point? It's not like it'll bring Steve’s mother back. Instead, he brings Steve’s hand up to kiss the back of his knuckles. 

“I want you to spend Christmas with us,” Bucky says abruptly. 

He feels the tension in Steve’s body before he pulls away to stare at him. They're quiet for a second, and Bucky licks his lips nervously. 

“Really?” Steve whispers. 

Bucky knows it's a big step, a  _ huge  _ step, for where they are in their relationship. This is a  _ we've been dating for the last two years, let's move in together and meet each other's families.  _ Not a  _ we've only been together a month, and I'm not even sure if we're  _ together  _ together.  _

But who the fuck even makes these rules anyway? And what kind of shitty not-really-but-maybe boyfriend would he be if he let Steve spend Christmas alone? 

“Yeah. Really.”

The smile on Steve’s face is tentative, but it lights up his whole face. Pleasure washes through Bucky, and he can't help but grin back. 

“You want me to help you decorate your apartment?” he asks after a minute. “We can put up the mistletoe.”

“Sap,” Steve murmurs. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to the cleft of Bucky’s chin before smiling against his lips. 

“Don't tell anyone.”

Stealing one last chaste peck, Bucky lifts himself off the couch. They spend the rest of their afternoon in Steve’s apartment, messing around with the ornaments, and stealing the odd kiss. 

It's a good day. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day before Christmas has Steve at the cemetery. There's a cold wind coming through, and it makes him shiver. Standing there just before Sarah Rogers’ headstone, it's almost as though he can hear her voice chiding him to get indoors before he catches his death. 

He'd heard those words countless times in his youth, during the lonely time where he'd just wanted to play with the other kids. 

Steve has to swallow against the lump forming in his throat. 

“Hey, Ma,” he says softly as he sets the flowers he'd bought on her grave. “Merry Christmas.”

For a moment, he doesn't say anything. It's been five years since she passed, but coming here doesn't seem to get any easier. Some small part of him keeps hoping she'll talk to him, of he'll wake up to find that her death had just been some horrible nightmare. 

_ Stupid.  _

“So, uh… Guess Christmas is gonna be better this year,” he begins. “Bucky invited me over.” Steve smiles, adding, “He's the guy I've been seeing. I think you'd like him. You remember how hard it was to keep me in line, but he's doin’ a pretty okay job. It's still new, but it doesn't really feel like it, y’know?”

Crouching down, Steve moves to lean against her headstone. The stone is cold even through the layers of his clothes, but he doesn't move. 

It’s comforting somehow.

“He makes me happy,” he says softly. “I’m hopeful. I think we can make it work.”

Steve stays there for a while longer, updating Sarah on how things are going with Peggy and Sam, what’s happening at work, telling her about his students. Occasionally, someone will amble passed, and look at him curiously, but Steve pays them no mind.

The cold has seeped into his bones by the time he gets up. His movements are stiff, and he can’t help but wince. Steve knows that he’s going to pay for this in the next few days.

_ Just not tomorrow. _

Dusting himself off, Steve pauses only long enough to press his fingers to the top of the headstone.

“I’ll see you soon, Ma.”

As soon as he gets home, Steve immediately heads for the bathroom. He’s shivering, and he knows that he’d spent too long at the cemetery. Still, he can’t bring himself to regret it. For so many years, Sarah Rogers had been his only friend, his confidant. 

Sad as it sounds, that hasn’t really changed, even after her death.

He takes a long, hot shower, only stepping out when he feels the water begin to cool. Roughly drying himself, Steve ambles into his bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, and checks the time on his phone.

17:35

_ Ugh. Another six friggin’ hours to go. _

Steve thinks about skipping mass, and immediately feels guilty about it. It was another of those holiday traditions, one of the few times a year where his Ma had thrown caution to the wind, and allowed Steve out into the cold without complaint.

It’d been one of the few times he’d felt like a normal kid.

Smiling fondly at the memories, Steve gets dressed, and heads over into the kitchen. He figures he can kill some time doing the finishing touches on Pepper’s birthday present.

At least that’ll get Tony off his back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Okay, I’m going!” Bucky calls out. He pats his pockets distractedly, checking for his phone and keys. 

Loud voices call back, and Bucky can’t make out any of their words. Rather than yelling back and adding to the cacophony, he just shakes his head. 

“James, hold up.”

It takes a whole lot of self-control to stop himself from rolling his eyes. If he’s late for this, he’s going to take it out of everyone’s asses.

He turns around to give Natasha an expectant look.

“You’re really going?” she asks him.

“Said I was, didn’t I?”

Eyebrows lifting at his tone, Natasha gives him one of those looks he hates. Like it’d been all too easy for her to figure him out, and she’s not especially impressed with what she’s found.

“This is starting to look pretty serious,” she comments.

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Steve,” Natasha says with a shrug. “First you invite him to spend tomorrow with us, and now you’re gonna take him to church.”

“So?”

He’s aware that he’s coming across as an asshole--that’s not too unusual, but he’d been in a pretty good mood the last few days--but the look on her face is making him weirdly defensive.

“So, when’s the last time you set foot inside a church? When I asked you if you wanted to have the kids baptised, you told me to just dunk them in the tub.”

Bucky scowls. 

“I’m not trying to bust your balls,” Nat tells him. “I just… wonder if you’re not maybe rushing into things.”

“Rushing into what?” he demands. “It’s--We’re goin’ to  _ church _ .”

It looks like Natasha wants to say something else, but she bites back the words. Her expression shifts into something polite and neutral and completely unreadable.

“Have a good time, tonight.”

He watches as Natasha walks away. There’s this restlessness bubbling under Bucky’s skin, and he doesn’t understand it. It’s sharp and bitter, and he was fine just yesterday.

_ You’re gonna be late. _

With that in mind, Bucky hurries out the door, shutting it behind him with a loud slam.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my lord, this took forever. I'm sorry. I ran into a block (and by block I mean Avengers Alliance on my phone). Here it is. I hope you all like it!

_This is so lame._

_No,_ you’re _lame_ , Steve mentally corrects himself.

They’re going to be two bisexual men, together, in a Catholic church, on Christmas Eve. Some of the older folk might drop dead from the indignity of it all.

Stomping his feet a little to get some feeling back into them, Steve’s about to head into the church when he hears someone calling his name.

Not somebody.

Bucky.

He smiles; he doesn’t even have to think about it. It’s instinct: Bucky’s here, and Steve’s body reacts. His heartbeat speeds up, his breathing picks up, and his lips curve.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky says as he stops before Steve. He’s frowning, looking around warily. “Kinda got into it with Nat.”

“Oh, crap, I'm--” Steve’s smile fades. “You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want. It’s no big deal.”

“What? No, of course…” Bucky lets out a little huff of breath, and then shakes his head. This time when he looks at Steve, some of the tension has eased from his expression. “I told you I’d be here for this.”

“You sure?”

Reaching for his right hand, Bucky brings it to his lips. It’s a simple gesture, but it never fails to strike a chord within Steve. It makes him feel sort of… cherished.

_Dumbass._

“I’m sure. Come on,” Bucky tugs him into the church. The pews are full of people; old couples holding hands, parents with their children, the odd person who looks to be on their own. The low hum of voices fills the building.

It feels good. It feels familiar.

Bucky lets go of his hand as soon as they’re seated, with him on Steve’s right. He feels strangely bereft without that contact, his hand clenching in the absence of Bucky’s smooth metal fingers.

The rhythm of mass is still the same: sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, stand, sit, kneel, stand. Steve hears the priest speak, but he isn’t really listening so much. It’s like his Ma’s here with him in the sound of the hymns, the clasp of strangers’ cold hands, the feel of the hard pew beneath him.

There’s a rumble of voices as mass ends. People are shuffling out of their pews, some of them holding children who’d fallen asleep on their shoulders.

“You ever do that with your kids?” he asks Bucky thoughtlessly.

He looks over his shoulder when Bucky doesn’t respond, and sees that his expression has shut down. A grim smile plays at the edges of his mouth as he meets Steve’s gaze.

“I was kinda busy most Christmases.”

As soon as Steve understands what Bucky means, there’s a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. While Steve had been praying with his Ma, and then later mourning her, Bucky had been a long way from home in an environment where people had been trying to kill him.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Neither of them speak as they make their way to the parking lot. It’s crowded despite the cold, and people are stopping to chat, the adults seemingly oblivious to the way the younger kids are rolling their eyes tiredly.

Bucky walks him to his car, but stops him before he gets in.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s tempting to shrug the whole thing off, to toss out a casual, “About what?” But that wouldn’t be honest. And there’s something off about Bucky right now, something that worries him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just--” Bucky grits his teeth, and rakes his fingers through his hair. Agitation clings to him. He takes a deep breath before asking, “D’you mind if I crash at your place?”

The question surprises Steve, but he recovers quickly.

“Course, Buck. Y’know you’re welcome anytime.”

When Bucky smiles, it’s genuine this time. He darts forward to press a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Before Steve can ask again if he’s okay, Bucky is hurrying over to where he’s parked. Staring after him for a few seconds, Steve finally gets in his car.

He worries about Bucky the whole ride home. For the last few days, Bucky had been this bundle of excitement and energy, his delight at being home for Christmas a palpable thing. But tonight, Steve had seen strain in his expression, and all that happiness seemed to have dimmed.

_I’ll talk to him when we get home_ , Steve decides.

A small part of him wonders if he’s lying.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky pulls up to the apartment just as Steve’s getting out of his car. The headlights illuminate his slender frame, and Bucky can’t help but marvel at how misleading Steve’s appearance is.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that the force of that personality is contained in such a fragile body.

The sudden knock at his window startles him, and Bucky’s reaching for a gun that isn’t there. It takes a moment for him to realise that it’s only Steve. His worried expression is slightly distorted through the fogged up window.

_Shit._

Immediately, he drops his hands. Takes a deep breath. Opens his door.

He can’t meet Steve’s gaze.

“Let’s get inside,” Steve murmurs. “It’s cold out here.”

Gratitude washes through him, and he nods wordlessly. Bucky follows closely behind the other man, trying desperately not to get lost in his own head again. They’re in the apartment, and Steve’s turning the light on, is shrugging out of his jacket. His shirt is kinda big on him, hanging away from his collarbone.

It occurs to Bucky again how small Steve is.

One wrong move with his metal arm, and Bucky could hurt him.

_Maybe this isn’t a good idea._

“You want some tea?” Steve asks before Bucky can say anything. “I’ve got chamomile. It’ll help you sleep.”

Bucky can’t help but wrinkle his nose. He’s tasted the weed infused tea Steve insists on drinking, and promised himself to never again put that stuff in his mouth unless under duress.

And in this instance, _duress_ comes in the form of bright blue eyes with stupidly long eyelashes and a gentle smile.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mutters.

He can hear Steve moving around in the kitchen as he sinks onto the couch. It’s so _normal_. Bucky allows his eyes to drift closed.

The couch shifts as a new weight joins him on the cushions. Bucky looks over to find Steve frowning at him. Moving slowly, being sure that Bucky can stop him at any time, Steve reaches out to brush his hair out of his face.

Leaning into the touch, Bucky feels the tension ease out of him somewhat.

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asks. His fingers have moved down to Bucky’s forehead, and he’s gently tracing the curve of Bucky’s eyebrows. It feels nice.

“Nah.”

Bucky half expects Steve to push, but instead he just says, “Okay,” and carries on touching his face.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there for. Neither of them speak; Steve’s fingers map out his features, while Bucky keeps his gaze locked on Steve’s. There’s more intimacy in this than anything they’ve done without their clothes on.

The thought makes him flush, and he reaches up to catch Steve’s hand, stilling his motions.

“We should probably get some sleep.”

“Probably,” Steve agrees. He makes no effort to move.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says after a long minute of silence. Distantly, he’s aware that Steve’s now tracing the slats of his mechanical arm.

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry about, Buck.”

“No, I do, I--” He sits up, scooting away from Steve a bit. “You deserve better, not some crazed, half-portion fucker--”

“Hey, hey.” Steve cuts him off by putting his hand over Bucky’s mouth. “Stop it, okay? You’re goin’ through stuff, and that’s normal. You are not crazed, and you are not any less of a man for what happened to you. Alright?” He stares earnestly into Bucky’s face, moving his hands to cup his cheek. The cast is rough against his skin. “Tell me you understand me.”

Bucky grins despite himself.

“You’re a good boyfrie--” The words come out before he can think better of it, and he can feel his face heating up.

“Wait, boyfriend?” Steve says softly. “Did you say that I-I’m your boyfriend?”

The smile on Steve’s face is just… God, he’s beautiful. And normally Bucky would’ve just blustered his way through it, but he doesn’t have the energy just now. Instead, he nods.

“Yeah. Guess I did.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve’s _giddy_. It’s pathetic and lame and he doesn’t even care.

_Boyfriend._

He’s grinning around his toothbrush when Bucky comes up behind him, settling his hands on Steve’s hips.

“What’s taking you so long?” he complains.

“You wanna wake up to bad breath tomorrow morning?” Steve asks after he’s spit out the toothpaste. “‘Cause that’s super sexy, right?”

“Everything you do is super sexy.”

Steve snorts, making water come out of his nose. He starts choking and coughing, and Bucky starts pounding on his back. From behind him, he can hear Bucky laughing.

“Okay, maybe not everything,” Bucky concedes.

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

_God, we’re dumb._

Leaning forward, Bucky crowds him against the sink, kissing him soft and slow. It feels so good having Bucky here, but…

“We really should go to sleep,” he murmurs against Bucky’s lips.

“Can’t think of a single reason why.” Bucky moves to nibble on his ear, and a sharp little moan escapes Steve’s throat. He’d probably be embarrassed if he didn’t want Bucky to do it again.

His dick is warring with his conscience, and _goddamn it, why can’t he just enjoy the friggin’ moment_?

“Early morning tomorrow,” he manages to force out.

Bucky gives a pained groan before pulling away to scowl at Steve.

“You’re killin’ the mood, Rogers.”

Hands dropping down to Bucky’s hips, Steve gives a little huff of exasperation. It’s not like he _wants_ to stop Bucky from doing whatever he’s got planned, but they’re doing Christmas with his family.

_Which reminds me…_

“Did you let anyone know you’re here?”

This time Bucky actually takes a step back. His lips are pressed together in a tight line.

“Look, Buck, I’m sorry,” he begins. “It’s just… they’ll worry about you. They’re probably worrying about you already.”

“They’re probably asleep,” Bucky says shortly.

“But it wouldn’t hurt if they woke up, and saw a message saying that you’re okay,” Steve presses.

And all that tension that had drained out of Bucky is back again; his shoulders are stiff, brow furrowed. Without another word, Bucky steps out of the bathroom. Steve watches the way the light glints off Bucky’s metal arm, and aches to touch him.

Looks like they’d had their first fight as an official couple.

_Yeah, that’s a landmark I could’ve gone without._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Fuck._

Bucky scowls down at his phone, even after he sends the text through. He's not pissed at Steve; the contrary little bastard’s right. Natasha, at least, would be worried, especially with his history of going on walk about without a word to anyone.

_Haven't done it in fuckin’ forever_ , Bucky thinks mutinously.

The mattress sinks beneath Steve’s weight. He hears a quiet sigh, and abruptly feels like an ass.

“So, uh, something’s just occurred to me,” Bucky begins casually, rolling over on the bed, and resting his head on his hand.

“Oh, yeah?” Steve turns around to look at him.

“Uh-huh.” A brief pause, and then, “Merry Christmas,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t have your present on me.”

“Sure you do,” Steve says easily. He looks pointedly at Bucky’s crotch,  wagging his eyebrows and leering exaggeratedly.

Bucky snorts a laugh.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells Steve. He pulls the covers down, slides in, and waits for Steve to do the same. Once they’re both under the blankets, Bucky moves over to wrap his arm around Steve’s waist.

_It’s nice_ , he can’t help but think. _Wouldn’t mind doin’ this every night._

_Slow your roll, Barnes._

Completely oblivious to where his thoughts had wandered, Steve is snuggling closer, a happy snuffling sound escaping him. Then Steve frowns, and starts shifting around, rearranging Bucky’s limbs to suit him.

“Comfy?” Bucky asks, ignoring the swell of emotion in his chest. Steve’s just so _at ease_ with him. Not even Wanda and Pietro are this comfortable touching his metal arm.

“Gettin’ there,” Steve mumbles.

A long time after Steve falls asleep, Bucky just listens to his breathing. It’s a little too shallow, but it’s steady. He finds himself matching his inhalations and exhalations to Steve’s.

_God, you’re a sap_.

And he really doesn’t care.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Steve wakes up warm and comfortable. There’s a hard chest against his back, and a hot palm resting on his hip. It would be so ridiculously easy to just roll over and go back to sleep. 

He hears a soft sigh behind him, and then soft lips against his shoulder. It feels nice; a sleepy smile crosses his face at the feeling.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

“Hi,” Bucky whispers back.

They quietly lie there together for a few minutes. Bucky’s hand is wandering, moving over Steve’s ribs, sliding up his stomach, tweaking gently at a nipple. It makes Steve squirm against him.

“Whacha doin’?” he grumbles. “‘m tryin’ to sleep.”

“You don’t like it?” Bucky asks, doing it again. Steve feels himself shiver at the feeling; his cock twitching in interest.

“Didn’t say that.” Steve’s words are muffled by his pillow, but he thinks Bucky might be able to see the edge of his smile peeking out. He’s sure of it when Bucky gives a low laugh, and then manhandles him onto his back.

Manoeuvering them around on the bed, Bucky then straddles Steve’s hips. A slightly startled gasp makes it’s way past Steve’s lips at the feel of Bucky’s weight on him. Usually, in situations like this, their positions are reversed.

He likes it.

It must show on his face, because Bucky smirks, slow and filthy, and grinds back down against Steve’s cock.

_ Okay, I’m awake. _

Steve licks his lips, and settles his hands on Bucky’s hips. Beneath his fingers, he can feel the faintly raised skin of the scars on Bucky’s left side. Something in his chest wrenches as he stares up at the other man.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says with feeling. 

And it’s not just the physical, though. It’s  _ everything _ . The way Bucky laughs, how he gets angry; it’s in his touch, and the way his eyelashes rest against his cheeks while he sleeps. It’s the way he loves his kids, the way he can’t walk passed a dog without petting it, and how he looks at Steve and  _ sees _ him.

_ I’ve got it so bad. _

But that doesn’t matter right now. The little flicker of panic in his chest that Bucky might not feel the same way is drowned out by the feel of Bucky’s mouth against his. Desperation makes him part his lips eagerly, sucking on Bucky’s tongue, and revelling in the sound that forces its way passed his throat.

“God, Stevie, I want…” Bucky hands are traveling over his chest, one warm, the other chilled. It makes goosebumps erupt across his skin.  

“Fuck me,” Steve whispers against his mouth. “Please.”

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a wild flush spreading across his skin, and Steve wants to follow it with his mouth. 

They scramble to get their few clothes off; they’re hurrying, but it’s not fast enough. He wants Bucky back on him, in him,  _ now _ . 

“Lube, it’s in the--” he begins, but Bucky cuts him off with a quick kiss. Steve can almost taste his smile.

“Hold your horses,” Bucky chastises him. He’s kissing Steve’s chest, licking his nipples, sucking hickies into the base of his throat. It feels so good, and it’s like… It’s as though Bucky doesn’t even notice that he’s skinny and bird chested and sickly. 

He squeezes his eyes shut against the swell of emotion that wells up inside him. Blindly, he reaches out to thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair, holding him close.  

Lips are moving down his concave belly, and Bucky’s nudging his thighs apart. He feels vulnerable, exposed, and God, it’s so, so scary. 

Steve spreads his legs further, swallowing back any hesitation. This is Bucky,  _ his  _ Bucky. And it’s that thought that melts away any fear or anxiety. There’s nothing for him to be afraid of. 

Those sinful red lips are on his cock now, and Steve arches his hips instinctively. 

“I love your skin,” Bucky whispers. “So soft and warm. And your taste… here.” He licks up from the inside of Steve’s thigh to the crease of his hip. “God, sometimes I’m just doin’ whatever, an’ I remember it, and  _ fuck _ … It makes me  _ so hard _ . And I wish you were with me.”

Using his grip in Bucky’s hair, Steve pulls him up away from where he’s licking at Steve’s hip. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and it’s like a conversation. Slowly, slowly, Steve leans in to kiss him. Just a light brush. He can feel his tenuous grasp on his control beginning to fray.

“Now, B-Buck…  _ Please _ .”

“Yeah? You want it?”

Steve nods wordlessly, his teeth biting into his lower lip. He can feel Bucky’s stare travelling over his face, and whatever he sees there makes Bucky look  _ hungry _ .

“Show me.”

The words catch Steve by surprise, but that only lasts a few seconds. Then, he’s scrambling to sit upright, rummaging through the bedside drawer for the lube. While he’s busy, Bucky moves up to rest his back against the headboard. His fingers trailing along Steve’s spine makes him clumsy. 

Finally, Steve gets his shaky hands on the bottle, and squeezes a dollop of the stuff onto his fingers without prompting. 

Crawling towards him, Steve straddles Bucky’s left thigh. It’s awkward at first, trying to find the right angle to finger himself while still maintaining his balance. But it’s worth it.

To see the awed look on Bucky’s face, he’d do this standing on his head if he had to.

Steve uses one hand to brace himself against Bucky’s chest, while he slowly works himself open with the other. It’s so much, the sensations crashing through him enough to make him dizzy.

He works himself open, enjoying the way Bucky pants at the sight. His fingers are just long enough to graze his prostate in this position, and the feeling makes his eyes roll back in his head. Bucky groans, and his hands settle Steve’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“Jesus Christ, Stevie,” Bucky rasps out. His eyes can’t seem to settle, landing on Steve’s face, his cock, where his fingers are pressing inside himself, and then coming back around to his face again. “You… Are you ready for me?”

The words come out sounding suspiciously close to begging. Steve feels so incredibly powerful in that moment. 

Withdrawing his fingers, Steve can’t stop the little mewl that escapes his throat. He feels empty, aching.

_ Not for much longer. _

They manage to align themselves, Steve with his legs parted on either side of Bucky’s hips. Bucky has slicked up his cock, the combination of lube and precum making it gleam in the light.

Slowly, Steve sinks down onto Bucky’s cock, holding his gaze the whole time. He needs to see the look on Bucky’s face, wants to feel Bucky’s heavy breathing against his skin.

Neither of them move for a few seconds. It feels  _ so good _ ; he feels full and stretched and he needs to  _ move _ .

Bucky helps him, using his grip on Steve’s hips to help him slide along his cock; in and out, slowly. 

“Fuck, you’re so  _ tight _ ,” Bucky breathes against his neck. “God, Stevie…”

They rock against each other, and Steve’s cock is rubbing against Bucky’s belly. The closeness is so much, so  _ intense _ . Steve can’t look at him anymore, and instead buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

“D-don’t let me go.”

“I won’t. I got you, Stevie, I’m right here.”

Their movements are speeding up now. Steve can feel Bucky pressing his fingers at his entrance, feeling as his cock slides in and out of him. 

Moans, grunts, the sound of the mattress creaking, it fills the room, but is eventually drowned out by the sound of his heart beating.

“Buck, oh God,  _ Buck _ … I’m gonna--I’m gonna…”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah… I wanna feel you. Come for me.”

Helplessly, Steve does as he’s told, coming in hot spurts against Bucky’s belly and clenching around Bucky’s cock. Bucky makes a rough sound, holds Steve close to his chest as he shudders. He presses soft, open mouthed kisses to the skin of Steve’s shoulders and neck.

For a long while, they just hold onto each other. Steve doesn’t want to move. 

This is where he belongs, right here in Bucky’s arms, their breathing in sync, so close there isn’t space for anything else.

Bucky finally huffs a laugh.

“We are  _ so _ late. Nat’s gonna kill us.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christmas has been okay so far; hell, he'd almost go so far as to say it's gone  _ well _ . Despite his dire predictions, Natasha hadn’t been too pissed about their arriving about an hour after they said they would. Steve’s completely at ease with Clint and the kids, and he's totally respectful with Nat, even slipping up and calling her ma'am a couple times. 

But all the while, Bucky had been aware of being under Nat’s scrutiny. She'd been paying attention to every smile, every glance, every touch he and Steve had exchanged. 

Still, at least Steve doesn't seem aware of being under the microscope. So long as he's comfortable, Bucky can handle it. 

“You two are really… sweet… together.”

So Bucky rolls his eyes at her comment, and concentrates on the plate in his hands. He and Natasha are on dishwashing duty; she’s washing, and he’s drying. The kids are laughing in the living room where they’re with Clint and Steve.

It’s nice. It's…  _ normal.  _

Only Nat seems determined to ruin things by  _ talking  _ about them.

Rather than answering, Bucky just makes a noncommittal sound. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, maybe she’ll just drop it.

_ Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. _

“I haven’t heard you laugh that way in a long time,” Natasha murmurs. “Not since you got home.”

“Steve’s a funny guy,” Bucky says stiffly.

She heaves an exasperated sigh, and then passes him another plate to dry. They’re quiet for a minute or two, and Bucky hopes that’s the end of it. There’s another loud laugh from the living room, and it’s Steve’s familiar guffaw. Bucky’s lips twitch at the sound.

“The kids seem to like him. Clint does too.”

“Jesus, Nat, get to the fuckin’ point,” he says impatiently. “D’you have a problem with me dating the guy? Is that what this is?”

Guilt follows quickly on the heels of anger as hurt flashes across Natasha’s expression. It comes and goes quickly, and if he didn't know her so well, he might have missed it. She turns her attention back to the soapy water. 

“I worry about you, is all,” she says in that carefully neutral voice they all hate. 

Bucky wants to put his head through the wall. He doesn't do that, though. Instead, he reaches over to squeeze her hand. 

“Sorry. I don't mean to… be a dick.”

“And I don't mean to get all up in your business,” Natasha says. She's not looking at him, staring instead at where their fingers are intertwined. 

“Liar,” Bucky says fondly. “But I like that you still care.”

“Of course, I care. James, whatever else may happened between us, we've always been friends. And since you came home--” Nat breaks off and pulls away, her arms wrapping around her waist. She leaves wet splotches on the garish Christmas sweater Clint had talked her into. 

They don't talk about this, they never do. It's too much, too soon, too painful. Already, memories try to flood through Bucky’s head; screaming, the blast of a bomb going off, and then that ringing in his ears that Bucky swears has never gone away. 

“Someone, help!”

Bucky jerks at the sound, spins around to find Steve coming into the kitchen, bright blue eyes lit with laughter. 

“Your kids are monsters, and Clint is just making things worse.” The smile fades from Steve’s face, and he looks quickly between Bucky and Natasha. His brows crease into a worried frown. “Everything okay?” he asks. 

Embarrassed, Bucky turns his back to Steve, not wanting him to see. Stepping in front of Bucky, Natasha fields the question.

“That’s generally how things go. What’re they beating you at? Mario kart?” 

He doubts that that’s thrown Steve off track, but he answers gamely anyway. 

“I’m pretty sure there’ll be studies ten years from now about how that game tears families apart.” He laughs a little, but it sounds off; Steve knows what’s up. 

Bucky can’t be sure if he’s glad Steve knows him this well. It’s comforting, but he feels like he’ll fracture if he’s pressed too hard.

“We’d probably be an excellent case study,” Natasha agrees. “C’mon, watch me kick Clint’s ass.”

There’s the sound of footsteps leaving the kitchen, and Bucky feels his shoulders sag in relief.

_ You’re fine, everything’s fine. You’re here, with the kids, with Nat. _

_ With Steve. _

Drawing in a few deep breaths, Bucky waits until it feels like he isn’t going to crawl out of his skin.

_ Everything’s fine. _

It’s just going to take a little time to convince himself of that.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nothing is fine. 

Okay, that might be a little bit of an understatement. But something is obviously bothering Bucky; it’s there in his strained smile, the way he laughs just a little too loud, how he won’t meet Steve’s gaze.

Bucky isn’t okay, and so nothing is.

The day seems to crawl by, and the house is too full of kids and exes and colleagues, and  _ goddamn it _ , he just wants to talk to Bucky.

Finally, just as it’s beginning to snow outside, Steve manages to chivvy  Bucky into the guest bathroom.

“Uh, hi?” Bucky gives him a blank look. 

“Hi.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Steve can feel the tips of his ears going red. Had he been imagining it all?

But then he remembers the haunted look on Bucky’s face in the kitchen earlier. Steve reaches out to gently lay his hand against Bucky’s cheek, tenderness welling up inside him.

“You okay, Buck?” he asks softly. 

“Fine. Why?” The look on Bucky’s face isn't encouraging.  _ Leave it alone _ , his eyes seem to warn. 

“Last night, you were a little… on edge,” Steve says, pressing on in spite of his sense of foreboding. “And today, in the kitchen--”

“Nat and me were talkin’,” Bucky says brusquely. “It wasn’t important.” He steps back, away from Steve’s touch.

Hurt, Steve brings his hand up to his chest, cradling it as though he’d been burned. It’s tempting to shrug it off, to disregard Bucky’s well being as easily as Bucky seems to.

But he can’t do that. 

It isn’t in him to walk away from a fight, and especially not over something as important as this.

Stepping closer, Steve rises on his tiptoes to meet Bucky’s gaze. He allows the concern to leak into his expression.

“You need to take care of yourself, Buck.” But he can see that the words aren’t having the desired effect, so he tacks on, “ _ I  _ need you to take care of yourself.”

Bucky’s expression softens minutely. 

Hands gentle, he cups Steve’s face in his hands. The metal of Bucky’s left hand is cool against Steve’s skin.    


“Don’t worry ‘bout me, okay? I’m fine.”

With a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth, Bucky’s gone, his voice echoing back as he challenges Clint to a game of Mario Kart. Steve feels uneasiness crawling across his skin.

“I hope so,” he whispers. Shaking his head, Steve follows after him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big, BIG thank you to everyone who's taken the time to comment. You all bring

Things are shit. In the space of less than two weeks, everything has gone to hell, and Bucky has no fucking idea how it happened.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

He fucked up. Like he  _ always _ fucks up.

In hindsight, he should’ve known. Things were good. So, so  _ good _ .

Until they weren’t.

New Year’s Eve had been a colossal fuck up. It’d been his first at home, so naturally he’d been nervous, although he’d tried his best to hide that fact. 

Steve hadn’t bought it. And that was what’d lead to their first real fight. 

“Jesus Christ, will you  _ stop telling me you’re fine _ ,” Steve had snapped. Flinging the dish towel down into the sink, he’d rounded on Bucky with a scowl.

“I am,” Bucky growled.

There’d been something in Steve’s eyes that makes Bucky’s chest feel tight. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. The nightmares had been less, he’d been feeling  _ better _ .

Licking his lips, Steve stared down at his feet, his hands on his hips. He hadn’t said anything for a long moment, and Bucky had allowed himself to hope that the other man would drop it.

_ Fat fuckin’ chance. _

“When’s the last time you went to a meeting?” 

Bucky hadn’t needed to ask what kind of meeting. His jaw had clenched so hard his jaw had ached, and he’d refused to answer.

His silence had seemed to act as some sort of encouragement to Steve. Stepping forward, he’d continued in an earnest voice, “There’s nothing wrong with needing help every once in awhile.”

“Yeah, you would know.” The words tore out of his throat before he could stop them.

“What does that mean?” Steve asked evenly. His expression was carefully neutral, and Bucky wanted to shake that, the selfish part of him willing to do anything to get away from this particular subject.

“I’m not helpless, Steve. I don’t need a fuckin’ stranger to tell me what’s goin’ on in my head.” 

“Because I’m helpless,” Steve had murmured quietly, as though to himself. He’d shaken it off though, those bright blue eyes piercing on Bucky now. “You went to war. God only knows what you went through there because you sure as hell won’t tell me. You need--”

“Don’t you tell me what I need. Alright? You don’t know me that fuckin’ well.”

He’d gone too far. It had been written all over Steve’s expression. Guilt crashing over him, Bucky had tried desperately to apologise.

“Shit, Steve. I-I’m so--” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean--”

But Steve had cut him off, raising a slender hand to halt his words. His lips were pressed tightly together, and it’d looked like he was trying not to cry. 

“You’re right,” he’d said softly. “We haven’t been together for that long, we’re still getting to know each other.”

Bucky had felt like shit. He’d left soon after, and the look on Steve’s face had stayed with him for a long time. 

It’s been almost three weeks since they’ve seen each other. Bucky misses him so much he  _ aches _ .

He’s also been an enormous ass, if what his family’s said is anything to go by.

“Just get off your ass, and go see him,” Clint growls. They’re in the kitchen, and Bucky’s been staring broodily into his coffee. Clint’s making something fancy for dinner, clearly looking to impress Natasha.

“Why? ‘M I ruining date night?” Bucky asks caustically.

And he knows the answer to that is a resounding  _ abso-fucking-lutely _ . It’s the rare Saturday night where Wanda and Pietro are both at their respective sleepovers and, if Bucky hadn’t fucked things up with Steve, Clint and Nat would’ve had the house to themselves.

_ Tough shit _ , Bucky decides. He’s not feeling generous enough to leave the house right now. It’d mean at least having to shower, and maybe change his clothes. 

_ Not gonna happen. _

It’s a mixture of shame and stubborn pride that keeps him away from Steve. He shouldn’t have lashed out, he knows that. But goddamn it, Steve just wouldn’t let the whole VA thing drop. And Bucky knows that it’ll only be a matter of time before it gets brought up again.

Rinse and repeat.

Shoving out of his seat at the kitchen table, Bucky stalks off to his bedroom, only pausing to snag a bottle of whiskey from one of the top shelves. He ignores Clint’s disapproving tut.

He and a certain Mister Johnnie Walker are going to be having some quality time tonight.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That man is an awful human being.”

“He’s a genius.”

“If by genius you mean mass murdering megalomaniac.”

“What d’you think, Steve?”

Steve glances up to meet the expectant looks of his friends. They’re having a Breaking Bad marathon at Sam’s insistence because Peggy’s never seen it before. For hours now, the two have been arguing over the merits of Walter White’s character.

Their words have gone right over his head.

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he admits.

The two of them exchange a worried look before Sam pauses the action on screen. A weary looking Jesse Pinkman stares out at them.

“Are you alright?” Peg asks gently.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say that he’s fine. To laugh it off, and tell Sam to press play. 

But that’s kind of what he and Bucky had been fighting about the other night. He’d never been a big fan of the whole  _ do as I say, not as I do  _ thing. Shifting uncomfortably on the couch, Steve can feel his shoulders slumping in what feels suspiciously like defeat.

“Bucky and I had a fight,” he admits. “It… it was pretty bad.”

“You wanna tell us what it was about?” Sam asks carefully.

He hesitates. Is this maybe too personal to share? Bucky hated even talking about it; Steve spilling to people Bucky hardly knows feels like a betrayal somehow.

_ I don’t have to give them specifics. _

“You know he was in the army, right?” Steve winces almost as soon as the question’s out of his mouth because  _ duh _ . “Well, I think… I think he has some things he needs to work through.” He says this very quickly, hoping it would make the sense of disloyalty dim somewhat.

It doesn’t really help.

“And I’m guessin’ you’ve talked about it before?” Sam asks.

“ _ Argued _ about it before,” Steve corrects glumly. “I-I don’t wanna push him. It’s just that I’m worried. I hate seein’ him hurting.”

But before Sam can offer any advice, Peggy cuts in.

“Steven, I know you care about him,” she says gently. “But this isn’t something you can force. Ultimately, it is Bucky’s decision. All you can really do at this point is be there for him.”

This is the worst part of hanging out with Peg. She’s always so goddamn sensible.

“D’you think I was too hard on him?” he asks in a whisper.

“No, darling. I think you were just… trying to will him into seeing things your way.” There’s a fond smile on his face as she reaches out to gently tap his knee.

“Yeah, man,” Sam adds. “Barnes is a smart guy. He’ll come round to the whole counseling thing, an’ he’s gonna need you there. So just give him some time.”

Managing a watery smile, Steve just nods. 

“Thanks, you guys.”

“No problem.” Sam grins at him then, all problems forgotten. “So… your stance on Mister White.”

“Madman or genius?” Peggy prompts.

“Uh… both? Fun to watch, but ultimately a terrible person.”

“You see?” Peggy says triumphantly.

“Oh, come on, the guy was tryin’ to save his family.”

“Well, he did a bang up job of it,” Peg retorts.

And as Steve listens to their familiar banter, a sense of peace steals through him. Things are gonna be okay. For tonight, he’s gonna hang out with his friends, and tomorrow morning, he’d call Bucky to apologise.

With the idea of finally hearing Bucky’s voice, of making things right, Steve relaxes back against the couch.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s drunk. 

Actually, that’s not quite right. There’s a good chance he passed  _ drunk _ about an hour ago. Or two? He’s not too good at keep track of time when he’s like this.

He can’t keep track of much of anything when he’s like this. 

Flopping back onto his bed, Bucky blearily muses that at least he hadn’t made things worse by leaving the house. Instead, he’d gotten all up close and personal with Walker’s rim in the comfort of his bedroom.

With a little snort of laughter at his own joke, Bucky barely manages to keep the sound from morphing into a sob. 

_ God, I’m so fucked up. _

And the worst part of it is, he’s probably fucked up the only not fucked up thing he’s got going for him right now.

_ I miss Steve. _

_ There’s only one thing for it. I gotta call him. _

Sparing a moment to be grateful that Steve’s on his speed dial--Bucky’s fingers are a little too clumsy at the moment to search through his contacts--he hits dial.

The phone rings for a really,  _ really _ long time. Bucky doesn’t mind waiting. Patting around at his nightstand, he manages to bring his fingers into contact with the whiskey before bringing it over for a deep swig. A few droplets escape down his chin, but he doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away.

Finally, after a fuckin’ long time--seriously, what the hell is Steve even doing?--a groggy voice answers the phone.

“Buck? Wha-wha’s goin’ on? Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, ‘m fine. I just missed you.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Steve laughs. Bucky closes his eyes as he listens to the sound. He likes Steve’s laugh. And his smile. And his skinny wrists and knobbly knees. 

It takes a second too long for him to realise that Steve’s talking again.

“--know what time it is?”

_ The time? Why the hell does that matter? _

“No. But I miss you all the time.”

“Are you always this cheesy when you’re drunk?”

“‘M not drunk,” Bucky protests.

He hears a quiet sigh on the other end of the line, and panics for a second.  _ Shit, I’m bugging Steve, this is a bad time, night time, so maybe Steve was sleeping. Steve needs his sleep, he gets sick in winter. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what if Steve gets sick ‘cause he isn’t sleeping and it’s all my fault-- _

“Buck, are you okay?” Steve’s quiet voice yanks him free of his rambling thoughts. 

In a moment of fleeting sobriety, Bucky answers honestly.

“Not really.”

More silence, and Bucky thinks about hanging up. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,” Steve murmurs.

“Huh?”

“You were right. I was pushing, an’ it was a dick move. I just…” Steve pauses to take a deep breath before continuing, “I want you know that I’m here for you. Always. Even when you’re bein’ a dumbass.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at that.

_ God, I’m so drunk. _

“Really hope I remember this in the mornin’,” he mumbles.

“Me too.” 

Neither of them speak for a moment. Bucky thinks that he could go to sleep, just like this. The phone pressed to his ear, listening to Steve’s even breathing.

“Hey, Buck. Will you do somethin’ for me?”

“Anything,” he says without thinking.

“You’re at home, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I need ya to go to the bathroom.”

“Man, I dunno if I’m drunk enough for whatever kinky shit you got planned, Rogers.”

“Moron,” Steve snickers. “Get off your ass, and drink a glass of water. Move it, soldier.”

“Bossy, bossy.” Still, Bucky does as he’s told, and heads for the bathroom. His legs are unsteady beneath him; he uses the wall as support while he keeps Steve on the line with him.

“You done yet?” Steve asks.

“Jesus, not yet. Sea legs ain’t what they used to be.”

“The hell you talkin’ about? You were never a sailor.”

“Yeah, but I used to drink like one.” He chuckles at his own joke, but Steve doesn’t seem to share his amusement. The smile slips from his face.

“Don’t worry,” he says as he steps inside the bathroom. “This won't be a regular thing.”

“Okay.”

He can hear the muted disappointment in Steve’s voice, and he  _ hates _ it, hates being the source of it.   


“No, I--Steve, I mean it. This was just me… fallin’ apart. It won’t--I won’t do it again.”

“Hey, hey. Listen to me, it’s fine, okay? I’m not mad. And if you want, we can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Will you pick up?” Bucky asks.

“Course I will, Buck. Actually, I was hopin’ you’d come over tomorrow. I can make you dinner, if you want.”

“That sounds nice.”   
“Yeah. Yeah, it does. Now do me a favour, huh? Remember that glass of water we talked about? I want you to drink it now.”

Obediently, Bucky fills up a glass, and drinks it down. It soothes something inside him to be awaiting instructions; he stops thinking and lets Steve’s voice guide him.

“Alright. Now I want you to fill the glass up some more, an’ put it by your bed. And maybe some aspirin, if you got it.”

“Okay.” Doing as he’s told, Bucky manages to get back to his room, and under the covers. He pulls them up to his chin.

He wishes Steve were here too.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

“What for?”

“For takin’ care of me.”

“Any time, Buck. Just get some sleep, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

Then, with exhaustion crawling over him, Bucky falls into a deep sleep.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s long past midday by the time Bucky arrives at his apartment. Steve takes a second before opening the door, pausing to check that the chicken looks okay. It’s a new recipe he’s trying, involving apples and onions. It smells good, but Steve can’t help being a little skeptical.

His Ma had never mixed the two ingredients, that’s for damn sure.

Hurriedly wiping his hands on his apron, Steve pulls the door open to find a very hung over Bucky.

Dark glasses are covering his eyes, and his skin is grey; sympathy tugs at Steve. 

“How’re you feelin’?” Steve asks quietly as he steps aside. Bucky gives a noncommittal grunt in response before shuffling passed him, and making a beeline for the couch. He doesn’t even pause to give Felicia his customary dirty look for finding her on the couch.

“Remind me to never drink again,” Bucky mumbles. He’d finally taken his shades off, and Steve can see that there are dark circles under his eyes.

“You can bet on it.”

Deciding against sitting on Bucky’s lap--he looks as though a strong breeze would knock him over--Steve lifts Felicia from her spot to sit beside Bucky. That earns him an indignant little hiss, but Steve pays her no mind. All his attention is on Bucky.

“I was worried about you last night.” Bucky opens his mouth, likely to apologise, and Steve cuts him off. “Shit, the food.”

All but launching himself from the couch, Steve almost trips over Felicia in his haste to get back to the kitchen. He can hear Bucky’s low chortle as he watches Steve go, followed by a pained groan. 

“They’re all right about you,” Steve tells the cat. “You’re a goddamn menace.” He stirs the chicken, relieved to see that nothing’s sticking to the pan. That, according to Sam, would be disastrous. 

Still, despite their little tiff, Felicia comes to wind herself around his legs affectionately. 

Maybe he’ll spare her a piece of chicken

Neither of them speak much while he finishes dinner. Bucky’s head is back against the couch, his eyes closed. It’s tempting to let their lunch burn, to just cuddle up beside Bucky and go to sleep.

Leaving the food to simmer, Steve quickly sets the table, and then moves over to where Bucky’s sitting.

He looks peaceful in his sleep. Feeling a surge of affection for the other man, Steve just stands there and watches him for a long second. Leaning over, he gently cards his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

“Hey,” Steve whispers as Bucky opens his eyes. “Food’s on the table.”

The drowsy smile he gets in return makes something in his chest catch, the feeling not all that different from the way he feels when his asthma plays up. Only, it passes quickly as it came, and it feels like Steve’s taking his first real deep breath.

It’s crazy, how something as benign as a smile can make a person realise that they are in some  _ seriously deep shit. _


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argggggh, updates are taking longer than usual! I'm sorry. I kind of sort of got side tracked by another AU I started working on, and now I'm neglecting this one. Boo, me. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.

The rest of their afternoon is spent in relative quiet, with them napping on and off for a couple of hours. Finally, when Bucky wakes up again, his head doesn’t hurt so much. Automatically reaching out for Steve, who’d been lying beside him, Bucky frowns when he finds Steve isn’t there.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he spots Steve sitting by the window, a sketchpad in his lap. The fading afternoon sunshine lights him up, making his skin seem to glow.

“Hi,” he manages to croak.

Steve looks up from his sketch pad, smiling, before he sets it aside and crawls onto the bed beside Bucky. Leaning over, he presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips.

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Better. Almost human.”

“So, like yourself, then,” Steve teases.

“Funny guy.” Then, just because he feels like it, he pulls Steve back in for a kiss, slightly longer this time. Indulgently, he sucks on Steve’s bottom lip, adding a hint of teeth before pulling away.

“Cheat.” Steve’s voice is kinda breathy, and it makes Bucky preen. 

“Sorry about passin’ out on you. I know we were supposed to talk.”

“We got time now,” Steve reminds him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I guess I should--God, Steve, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve gone off at you like that. And I should’ve called you sooner. And y’know, not drunk off my ass.”

“I was worried more’n anything,” Steve says. “But yeah. I’d appreciate it you didn’t make that a habit.”

Bucky reaches out to squeeze Steve’s hand. He hopes that Steve can hear his sincerity as he says, “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Okay.” Steve scoots a little closer to him; their shoulders are brushing against each other now. “And I wanted to say I’m sorry ‘bout pushing for the VA thing. I’m not sayin’ that I’ve changed my mind,” he adds hastily. “But I am sorry for getting up in your face about it. This is your call.”

“Thanks. I-I-I…” Bucky blows out a long breath. “I just need some time to work up to it.”

Face lighting up at that, Steve throws his arms around Bucky’s neck, practically tackling him back onto the bed. Bucky returns his embrace enthusiastically. 

“Does that mean we’re okay?”

Pulling back, Steve’s expression is now serious. 

“We’re more than okay. I’m... I'm with you ‘til the end of the line, Buck.”

And doesn’t that make Bucky feel like king of the goddamn universe. Emotion welling up inside him, he buries his face against Steve’s chest, just breathing him in.

_ God, I love him so much. _

It’s not much as far as revelations go, Bucky figures. Because now that he’s actually wrapped his head around it, he might have loved Steve since the night the dumbass had let Bucky into his apartment without a second thought.

At the risk of sounding like a cliche, Bucky had always tried to avoid the whole love thing. Getting attached was dangerous, ‘cause when you got seperated, it hurt. He remembers the days after he’d enlisted, the ache in his chest at being away from his family. Hell, even being away from Nat hurt, and that was before he’d found out she was pregnant.

Loving his kids had hurt too, in its own way. After he’d been discharged from the army, Bucky had come home fucked in the head, missing his goddamn arm, and been confronted by two little strangers. They’d spent some time together while he’d been on leave, but that hadn’t made Bucky a father. Sometimes, he still isn’t sure if that particular title doesn’t suit Clint better.

But this, with Steve… it’s like nothing Bucky’s ever felt before. With Steve, nothing else really matters. Not Bucky’s scars or his metal arm; not Steve’s asthma or his frail body.

_ We fit. _

“Y’know what we should do?” Bucky asks. His voice is slightly muffled against Steve’s shoulder, so Bucky pulls back to look at him.

“What?”

“Have some ice cream. I have it on good authority that it tastes better in the cold.”

“Duh,” Steve says, grinning. It makes laugh lines form at the corners of his eyes, and Bucky’s just struck again by how beautiful he is. 

_ I am so far gone. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Steve is happy. Completely, nauseatingly happy. Happier than he’s ever been before. 

There’s some very small part of him that’s watching all of this with a sort of wry amusement. Steve’s never been much of a romantic, despite his artistic nature. And now, all it takes is one goofy grin or asinine comment from Bucky to turn him inside out.

He wishes his Ma could’ve seen him like this. Sarah would’ve loved it, would’ve adored Bucky. 

A pang of sadness runs through him at the thought, but it doesn’t last long. He and Bucky are together on the couch, eating from a tub of Ben & Jerry’s that Steve’s pretty sure has been there since the summer before last. They’re watching Storage Wars, and Bucky keeps getting irritated with the old guy for wasting money; Steve’s not even trying to muffle his snickers.

They finish up the carton, and Steve gets up to dump their spoons in the sink.

“The fuck’re you doin’?” he hears Bucky shouting from the living room. “You could sell that shit, you dumb old ass.”

Smirking, Steve heads into his bedroom for a blanket before returning to Bucky. He climbs onto the other man’s lap, reaching up to turn Bucky’s chin in his direction when Bucky cranes his neck to glare at the TV.

“Look at what this asshole’s doin’, Stevie. That grill would’ve been worth at least two hundred bucks. He just knocked it over like it was nothin’.”

“Is this really how you wanna spend the night? Yelling at Barry what’s his name?”

Finally, he’s caught Bucky’s attention. Glancing up at Steve, he puts his hands on Bucky’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles against the material of Steve’s sweatpants. There’s a speculative look in his eyes, and it makes Steve feel a tingle of anticipation.

“You got something better in mind?” he drawls. 

“Oh, well, I don't wanna interrupt--”

Bucky groans, and then wrestles Steve onto his back on the couch. It takes some maneuvering, but they finally end up with Bucky on top of him. Providing only a token amount of resistance, Steve grins up at Bucky, only to be met by an uncharacteristically serious frown. It’s at odds with their playful rough housing of a moment before.

“What's up?” he asks in bemusement. 

“I think…” Bucky trails off, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. Steve can't help the way his eyes drop automatically to Bucky’s mouth at the gesture. 

It gets damn hard to concentrate when Bucky does that. His imagination runs wild with thoughts of where he wants that mouth.

But he’s brought abruptly back to himself when Bucky hastily finishes.

“Iwantyoutofuckme.”

“Huh?”

That earns him an exasperated look, but Steve can’t even bring himself to be apologetic. It’s just… he hadn’t expected that to be something up for discussion. And that’s totally okay. More than okay. Steve  _ loves _ the way he feels when Bucky’s inside him.

Steve can almost feel the blood draining from his head towards his dick. His imagination replaces images of Bucky’s mouth around him to the hot, tight clasp of Bucky’s cock squeezing him, milking him dry. 

_ Sweet Jesus. _

“Hey, anyone in there?” Bucky asks, waving a hand in front of his face. Steve sees that the other man looks uncertain now. “We don’t have to, if you don’t--”

“Let’s go.”

“Really?”

“Move it, Barnes. I’m not lettin’ ya change your mind.”

Laughing, Bucky gets up off the couch, pulling Steve along behind him. They stumble into the bedroom, only pausing long enough to pull off their clothes. Hands reverent, Steve caresses Bucky’s sides and back. He can feel the raised skin of the old scars on Bucky’s left shoulder, and leans forward to press soft kisses there.

Bucky allows it for a moment before turning his head, angling his chin to invite Steve to explore his mouth. They spend a long moment wrapped in each other, lost in the intimacy of the kiss, skin sliding against skin. 

God, Steve  _ aches _ with how much he wants Bucky, love and the need to feel Bucky naked against him making his head swim.

“Bed,” Bucky says against his mouth. Steve isn’t sure how he manages the strength of will to pull away, but he does. 

Then they’re on the bed, and Bucky’s on top of him, and it feels so good. But this isn’t what Steve wants, not right now. He pushes at Bucky’s shoulders lightly until Bucky pulls away enough to look down at him.

“What?” he pants.

“Switch.”

Bucky doesn’t need convincing. The eagerness with which he scrambles off of Steve and spreads his thighs makes Steve’s cock throb. But something occurs to him, and he pauses. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but still. It’s something he knows he should ask.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Oh, Rogers, come on.”

“What? It’s no joke, havin’ something up your ass.”

When all Bucky does is snicker uncontrollably at him, Steve has a thought. It can’t be.

Is Bucky… nervous?

“You… you’ve never done this before, have you?”

And yup, that’s Bucky blushing.

“Okay. Uh--” Steve looks down at his flagging erection, and feels a tug of panic. While he’s not huge by any means, he’s also not small. And it doesn’t really matter how big a cock is, having it up your ass can hurt, especially the first time.

“See, this is why I didn’t wanna bring it up,” Bucky says, falling back onto the pillow behind him. “Total buzz kill.”

“Yeah, well, so’s a bleeding asshole.”

Bucky bursts out laughing at that, and Steve can’t hold in his own snort of amusement. Heaving a sigh, Steve crawls over to press a kiss to Bucky’s chin. 

“This didn’t go as planned.”

“Ya think?”

“Doesn’t mean we gotta stop,” Steve tries. “Just gotta take it a little slower, is all.”

Actually, that sounds great. And, now that his own erection isn’t occupying all his attention, Steve can draw this out a little. Warming to the idea, he scoots down the bed, peppering light kisses along Bucky’s collar bones and midriff. Goosebumps follow in his wake, and Steve experiences a surge of satisfaction.

“Roll over,” he whispers.

“What?” Bucky lifts his head up from the pillow to stare down at Steve. The slightly shocked look on his face makes Steve grin.

“I said--” And here he reaches up, cupping Bucky’s balls, giving them a gentle tug. “--roll over.”

Bucky doesn’t need to be told another time.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On his hands and knees, Bucky is so intensely focused on what’s happening behind him. He feels incredibly vulnerable like this, exposed. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle it if he had his back to anyone but Steve in this position. There’s a faint rustling from the nightstand, the quiet padding of Steve’s feet on the carpet. 

Asshole’s taking his own sweet time.

“You wanna hurry up?” Bucky asks, casting an impatient look over his shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

He’s never heard Steve use that tone before, sharp and authoritative, and  _ fuck _ , it turns him on. Bucky’s fingers clench around the comforter beneath him as a shiver of anticipation runs down his spine.

A few seconds pass while Bucky holds himself still, desperate for Steve to touch him. Finally,  _ finally _ , Steve’s hands are on his hips; his hold is light where Bucky thinks he wants fingers digging into his skin. Experimentally, he arches his back.

The stinging slap to his ass has him freezing in surprise. A groan tears itself free before he can stop it.

“This okay?” Steve asks.

It takes a moment for Bucky to find his voice, and he manages to choke out, “Do it again.”

Steve hesitates, and then there’s a flash of heat across Bucky’s skin. 

“ _ Christ _ .”

He can hear Steve laughing, but it’s distant. Long fingers slide over the curve of his ass, and his knees are nudged a little further apart. Next comes the sound of a bottle cap being opened--the lube, Bucky realises--and then probing fingers. 

Instinct has him clenching up, but Bucky forces himself to relax. Steve’s touch is tentative, circling his rim a few times, letting Bucky get used to the feeling, before he pushes in just the tip of his finger.

With a sharp inhalation, Bucky shifts against the slight burn and stretch as Steve slips in a little deeper. It’s strange and uncomfortable and he wants more of it.

“You still with me, Buck?”

“C-c-can we ta-take it slow?” he stammers.

“As slow as you want.” Steve’s other hand comes up to rub soothingly between Bucky’s shoulder blades; his skin is slick with sweat. He waits a few beats before asking, “Is it okay if I move? Just a little?”

Nodding because he can’t find the breath to speak, Bucky cautiously bears down on Steve’s finger. Still with the gentle motions against Bucky’s skin, Steve slowly withdraws his finger and then slides it back inside Bucky.

Steve’s being so,  _ so  _ careful. It warms something inside Bucky’s chest even while he wants to bark at Steve to move faster. He settles on a sort of compromise, clenching around Steve’s finger and letting out a guttural moan.

“Yeah, you like that?”

“More... please.”

That’s when Steve pulls out, and Bucky’s on the verge of cursing when he feels a second finger sliding slowly into him. Stretch and burn, and then…

And then...

“ _ Fuck _ .”

He hears a pleased sound coming from Steve, but it’s so far away. Steve had touched something inside Bucky, something he’d known was there, but had never bothered to explore before.

It feels  _ incredible. _

Before long, Bucky is fucking himself back on Steve’s fingers, noises he hadn’t known he was capable of making falling passed his parted lips. Against his thigh, he can feel Steve’s erection. He wants Steve inside him so bad, but at the same time, he can’t bear for this to stop. 

Cock leaking, hips writhing, Bucky’s body is moving without his permission. Steve doesn’t stop him, though, so he figures it’s okay.

Until his hand drops down to his erection.

“Stop that,” Steve barks, stilling the motion of his fingers. Bucky whimpers, but doesn’t let go of his cock; he’s not sure what feels worse at this point, the aching throb of his dick, or Steve threatening to withdraw from him.

The fingers win out, and Bucky’s dropping his hand back down on the covers beneath him. He’s about to say something--a plea, a moan, a command to hurry the fuck up--but Steve’s next words cut him off.

“Good boy. Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you.”

Bucky nods, eager and wanting, when Steve pulls out, and an absurd spike of betrayal rushes through him. 

_ What the fu-- _

Warm breath against his skin, and then… Christ, that’s Steve’s  _ tongue _ . 

Incoherent noises spill free from him, he’s fighting for air, and his only thought is  _ more _ .

After a moment or two, fingers join Steve’s tongue, and it too much.

“F-f-fuck me. Now. Steve, p-please.”

It turns out that Steve’s control is as frayed as Bucky’s is at this point because he doesn’t argue. He pulls away, and Bucky can hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper, the spurt of lube.

“Hurry. Fuck, Stevie, I wanna--I wanna feel you.”

Steve positions himself at Bucky’s entrance, pushing forward slowly. Even after Steve’s fingers, it hurts. The burn makes him gasp out loud, and Steve hesitates. 

“You okay? D’you--”

Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

Pressing forward, slowly, so, so slowly that Bucky feels his fingers spasming against the sheets until Steve bottoms out. For a long second, neither of them moves. 

“You feel amazing,” Steve whispers.

They’re moving together then, Steve thrusting forward while Bucky pushes back to meet him. Long, slender hands rest on his hips, and Bucky is intensely aware of them, even with everything else. He loves those hands, the long tapered fingers, the way--

He loses track of his thoughts when Steve hits  _ that spot  _ inside him. Back arching, Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head and time doesn’t mean anything. All he knows is that he’ll die if Steve stops.

The sound of skin slapping against skin is the only sound Bucky can hear, interspersed only by the occasional grunt or whimper.

_ Close. So close. _

It borders on unbearable.

“Wait, wait,” Steve pants. Bucky’s body responds, muscles trembling, while he bites down on the urge to ask Steve if he’s out of his goddamn mind. “I wanna see your face,” Steve continues. 

_ Okay. Okay, I can do that. _

And the faster he does it, the sooner he can have Steve back inside him.

Scrambling to roll over onto his back, Bucky makes sure to sprawl his thighs, inviting Steve back to him. Not that it would take much.

Steve crawls over to him, fitting their bodies together, and then he’s back inside Bucky. As he stares into Steve’s expression, Bucky notes the flush that’s spread across his cheekbones, the way his lips-- _ God, those lips _ \--are swollen from biting on them. 

He yanks Steve closer, kissing him hungrily. 

Their movements are uncoordinated now; all that matters is the release, watching Steve losing it on top of him. Steve’s hand comes up between them, jerking him off in time to his thrusts.

Words are tumbling out his mouth, a mixture of begging and babbling, and then it happens.

“Love you. Love you so much.”

_ Oh, fuck. _

Steve freezes above him, staring at him with those wide blue eyes. But before Bucky can panic, Steve is kissing him, hard and frantic, and then it’s all over. Crying out, he comes all over his belly. White spots dance in front of his eyes as the pleasure washes through him.

Above him, Steve is calling his name before he collapses on top of Bucky. 

With immense effort, Bucky pulls himself out of his daze to listen to Steve’s breathing. It’s coming too quick, but he isn’t wheezing, so Bucky takes that as a good sign. He runs his hand over Steve’s sweat slick skin, feeling the knobs of Steve’s spine beneath his fingers.

It’s easier to concentrate on that than to dwell on the fact that he’d dropped the  _ fucking L-bomb. During sex. _

_ Fucking idiot. _

Finally, Steve lifts his head. His eyes are drooping slightly, sleep obviously tugging at him, but his words are perfectly clear.

“I love you too.”

And then, acting like it was no big deal, Steve rests his head back on Bucky’s chest, allowing his eyes to drift shut. His breathing gradually evens out as sleep overtakes him, even though they’re both sweaty and covered in come.

Bucky doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, upon rereading this, I realised that it's just mostly porn. So... sorry?


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took really long to update. What the hell? I used to be so much better with this.

_Fear is a funny thing. Bucky had thought he understood the meaning of the word. Back before he’d gone overseas, fear had been that feeling right before he walked into a test he hadn’t studied for, or that time some car had come careening through a red light and almost t-boned his car._

_Then, he’d arrived in Afghanistan. Fear had taken the shape of landmines and IEDs, of conservatively garbed civilians skirting passed him in his military uniform. Friend or foe?_

_It’d taken Bucky a long time to stop expecting members of the Taliban to come leaping out from behind stalls in the market._

_Complacency. Their commanding officer had railed against it every time he opened his mouth, and Bucky and the rest of his team had taken the warnings seriously._

_Until they’d lowered their guards by just a fraction._

_Everything had gone to hell after that._

_Now, there’s a weight on Bucky’s chest. It’s hot, and he’s disoriented, and fear tastes like ash in his mouth._

“Bucky! Buck--”

_Is that… God, is that Dugan? But no, it can’t be. Dugan is dead, bits of him littering the dusty road like confetti. He’d been the closest to the blast, his panicked yell drowned out by the explosion._

“Wake up. God, Bucky--”

_That voice didn’t belong. When he’d woken up, he was alone. There’d been an IV attached to his right arm, and his left…_

Christ, his left arm was fucking gone.

_Numb disbelief, a thin, icy covering over the horror of what had happened._

“Bucky, c’mon, you gotta wake up.”

There’s a hand on his left shoulder, and Bucky feels rage bubble up inside him. Eyes snapping open, heart pounding, his arms shoot out, viciously shoving the weight off of him.

It takes a long moment for Bucky to recognise where he is--a bedroom, not a hospital room--and a sick feeling settles in his chest.

Oh, God.

_ohgodohgodohgod_

A faint whimper sends Bucky scrambling off the bed. Steve is on the floor, flat on his back, gasping for breath.

 _I hurt Steve_.

But there isn’t time for him to panic. Kneeling beside him, Bucky can’t quite bring himself to touch Steve. He’s terrified, waiting to see Steve flinch away from him.

_Don’t be a pussy._

Things get a thousand times worse when Steve opens his eyes. Shame curdles inside him when he sees not anger--which would be completely fucking justified--but concern.

“You okay?” Steve manages to ask in a pained voice.

For a moment, Bucky’s throat is too thick for him to get any words out.

_Stupid, stubborn fuckin’ asshole._

“I am so, _so sorry_ . My God, Steve, I swear, I didn’t--I didn’t mean it. Are you hurt? Did I get you with this--with this fuckin’ _thing_ ?” Bucky has never hated his metal arm as much as he does right now. If he’d hurt Steve, _really_ hurt him, Bucky would take the goddamn thing off with a crowbar.

“What? No, no, I’m-I’m fine.” Cautiously, Steve forces himself up on his elbows, wincing a little. Bucky hurriedly helps him into a sitting position; it makes his skin crawl to touch Steve with the cold, hard metal.

“Stevie, I--” Fuck, it doesn’t matter how many times he apologises, it won’t be enough. “D’you need to go to the hospital?” When Steve silently shakes his head, Bucky forces himself to ask, “D’you want me to leave?”

“No. Jesus, Buck, no.” Steve winces as he shifts to face Bucky more fully. He reaches out to touch Bucky’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s unbearably gentle, and Bucky wants to throw up. It would be easier if Steve was angry, if he demanded that Bucky get the hell out and never darken his doorway again.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, as though that would fuckin’ help.

To his credit, Steve doesn't tell him that it's okay, or try to blow it off. Instead, he just waits for Bucky to speak.

He can't do it. Instead, he clambers to his feet, preparing to grab his clothes and bolt. Steve follows him up, and then, unphased by his the differences in their height, blocks Bucky’s path.

“Don't go.”

“How can you even still want me here?” Bucky bursts out. He stalks over to turn the lights on, and then waves at Steve’s chest. Bruises are already beginning to form on his pale skin. “I could've broken your fuckin’ ribs. Or what if you'd hit your head?” The possibilities are endless, and Bucky feels like he can't breathe.

“But you didn't,” Steve points out calmly.

“That's not--Christ, Steve. I can't--I don't--”

Tears sting the backs of his eyes as frustration and rage and shame well up inside him. He _can't_ hurt Steve. He wouldn't be able to live with himself.

“If you wanna go, I can't stop you,” Steve tells him. “But… I _want_ you to stay with me.” His voice falters slightly as he adds, “Please don’t leave.”

Bucky doesn’t have the strength to say no. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he can feel the anger abruptly draining out of him. Now he just feels empty. He allows Steve to push him gently down onto the mattress without a fight.

Dropping his head into his hands, Bucky doesn’t try to stop the tears that escape.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _It’s strange not having Steve with us on Sunday mornings_ , Peggy muses. She’s not one to let change slow her down for long, never has been. But she’d be lying if she said that she didn’t miss his company.

Still, it’s not _all_ bad.

“The lady at the counter has a thumb tack in her cheek,” Sam whispers as he returns with her tea and that god awful coffee he insists on drinking. He slides into the seat opposite her, casting a none too subtle glance back at the barista. Her long blonde hair has been twisted into dreadlocks, much to the disdain of some of the clientele.

“Don’t be unkind. Claire’s a very sweet girl.”

“Claire, the very sweet girl, is havin’ some sorta identity crisis. Not even your beautiful self could pull off dreads.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Peggy blurts out. Sam raises his eyebrows, and she fights the urge to curse.

_Well bloody done. Excellent time to speak without thinking._

While she’s mentally berating herself, Sam has continued to stare at her. It takes all Peggy’s willpower to meet his gaze evenly.

“I think you’re insanely beautiful,” Sam murmurs at last. A long silence stretches between them, and Peggy feels awareness prickling down her spine.

_This really isn’t ideal._

The… _feelings..._ she’d been having for Sam had been growing, despite Peggy trying to stomp on them the way she would a troublesome insect. It’s not that there’s anything about Sam that is somehow objectionable. An intelligent, handsome man with a wonderful sense of humour, any woman would be lucky to have him.

But Sam is her _friend_ . One of her _best friends_.

Peggy doesn’t want to lose him.

And no matter what anyone says, introducing romance to a friendship seldom works out well for either party.

“Hey, you okay in there?” Sam asks gently, ducking his head to catch her gaze. Peggy shakes herself free from her thoughts, trying desperately to pull herself together.

“Yes, sorry,” she answers briskly. “Just got lost in my own head for a bit there. What were you saying?”

“There, uh, there’s somethin’ I wanna talk to you about. If that’s okay.” Sam appears nervous, and Peggy’s heart sinks. She really doesn’t want to do this, but can’t think of a polite way to refuse.

Some of her trepidation must show on her face because Sam shakes his head. With seemingly enormous effort, he reins in himself in, and offers Peggy a bright smile.

“What d’you think we gotta do to get some time with Steve, huh? It’s getting to the point where I can barely remember what he looks like.”

They both know that that wasn’t what he was going to ask, but Peggy lets it go. She makes some airy reply, only half her attention on what she’s saying. It irks her, the way some men feel compelled to make the object of their affection uncomfortable when it turns out their feelings aren’t returned. Peggy would never put up with it, and she knows that Sam would never do it.

But it still makes something in her heart swell that Sam cares enough to drop the subject, even though it’s clearly important to him.

_It’s better this way._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Steve’s apartment is quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, where he and Bucky are dozing together on the couch. This quiet has barbs. Bucky is tense, and even though he agreed to stay, he flinches away from every touch, no matter how casual.

Knowing better than to push--either in terms of conversation or physical contact, he sits cross legged on the floor. On his lap is his sketch pad, and beside him Felicia is lying on her back, fast asleep. Her little black paws are high in the air, little snuffling sounds escaping her on occasion. Steve concentrates on capturing the angle of her whiskers on the page.

He’s still achingly aware of Bucky. Every time he moves, whether it’s to rearrange himself on the couch or to scratch his cheek, Steve’s gaze is drawn to him. It hurts to see him like this. There’s nothing Steve wouldn’t do to make things better for him, even just for a few minutes.

This helpless feeling reminds Steve of his asthma attacks. Honestly, he’d rather deal with the asthma. At least he knows what to do when that shit hits the fan.

After a few more minutes of aimless doodling--he doesn’t know whose cat is on the page, but it sure as hell isn’t his--Steve gives up. Getting to his feet, he pads into the kitchen for some tea. It’s more the ritual of brewing it that soothes him than anything else, and he kinda needs that right now.

“D’you want anything?” Steve asks quietly.

He isn’t expecting an answer, and he doesn’t get one. Instead, Steve hears Bucky getting off the couch. Stifling a sigh, he goes through the motions of making the tea, concentrating on pouring the hot water into his mug and steeping the chamomile. He doesn’t hear Bucky coming up behind him.

“Steve.”

Starting at the sound of Bucky’s voice, Steve tries to act casual as he turns to face him. Bucky’s lips are twisted in a cold smirk; apparently he hadn’t done too great a job at hiding his reaction.  

“I’m not gonna be sleeping over anymore,” Bucky says abruptly.

It feels like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. Steve stares at Bucky blankly, with the irrational hope that he’ll drop the grim facade and tease Steve for taking him seriously.

Helplessness washes over him again. Steve feels oddly breathless.

Whatever it is Bucky sees in his expression, it makes him shift uncomfortably. He closes the distance between them, but still makes no effort to touch Steve.

“This isn’t--” Bucky lets out an impatient breath, raking his fingers through his overlong hair. “It’s not forever, okay? An’ this isn’t me breaking up with you, or--” He cuts off again, looking uncertain. “I mean, unless you wanna break up, which I’d totally understand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Steve’s voice is sharper than it should be, but he can’t help it. The idea that he’s gonna cut and run just because things are getting hard rubs him up the wrong way.

“Okay. Right,” Bucky says with a nod. “Anyway, I-I need to deal with some shit. An’ until the nightmares get better… we can’t sleep together.”

Steve is sorely tempted to argue, but he bites his tongue. Boundaries are important, especially if Bucky’s feeling like things are out of his control. What’d happened last night--this morning--had scared them both. And if Bucky felt that them not sharing a bed was the best way to deal until he figured stuff out, that was fine.

But he can’t bear the thought of Bucky cutting him out. Not now.

“This mean we’re… are we…” Steve swallows hard, hating how vulnerable he feels right now. He forces himself to continue, willing his voice to remain steady. “Are we takin’ a break?”

Expression unreadable, Bucky simply stares at him. Steve feels his heart sink.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies evenly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky does all he can to keep his expression blank, and his breathing steady. No one needs this bullshit in their lives, and Steve’s already had to put up with more than enough as it is.

So if this is what Steve needs to get out…

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. And then Steve turns away from him sharply. To Bucky’s surprise, the other man aims a vicious kick to the side of one of the cabinets; it’s followed by a sharp yelp.

“Christ, Steve, the hell’re you doin’?” Bucky demands, hands outstretched and moving towards him.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” Steve snaps back. Immediately, Bucky freezes. The hurt that settles in his chest is sharp and burns like shrapnel.

“I-I-I… I’ll j-just go,” Bucky stammers. His earlier bravado has crumbled in the face of Steve’s anger, and he just wants to get _away_. Feeling lost, Bucky looks around for his phone and jacket, when Steve’s sharp voice stops him.

“You’re leavin’. That’s it.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“No, goddamn it. Didn’t you hear me this morning? Was the whole _I love you_ thing just lip service or somethin’? Were you so fucked out that you were talking outta your ass?”

That makes Bucky angry.

“Of course not,” he says sharply, fists clenching.

“Then why’d you wanna leave me?” Steve bursts out.

_Fuck._

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, struck dumb by Steve’s wounded expression.

“I know I’m not… big and strong, an’ I know I get sick a lot,” he continues softly. “And maybe you think I can’t handle what you’re going through. But I can. I promise you, Buck, _I can_. I wanna…” Steve rakes his hands through his hair, throat working; Bucky wants to touch him, but it’s as though his feet are cemented to the floor. “If you want me, I-I wanna be there for you. Always.”

For a long moment, Bucky can’t speak. And the longer he stays quiet, the worse the tension gets.

“You mean it?” he whispers.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Steve still manages to look so completely exasperated that it almost makes Bucky smile.

“This friggin’ guy. Do I _mean_ it?” Steve mutters, apparently to himself. To Bucky, he adds, “I love you, you stubborn pain in the ass. And I--”

But Bucky doesn’t let him finish. Relief swamping him, he lurches forward to pull Steve against his chest. He knows his grip is probably too tight, but he can’t help it.

“I’m gonna get better,” Bucky promises, voice slightly muffled from where he’s buried his face against Steve’s neck. “I promise, things’ll get better.”

“Not worried ‘bout _things_ so much as I’m worried ‘bout you.” Steve’s thin arms tighten around Bucky’s waist. Neither of them moves for what feels like a long time. Finally, Steve breaks the silence that’s settled over them.

“Uh, Buck?”

“Hmmm?”

“Gettin’ kinda hard to breathe right about now.”

It’s then that Bucky realises how hard he’s holding onto the other man, and he hastily lets go, exhaling a curse.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve smiles at him, but it doesn’t disguise the concern in his eyes. He clears his throat before turning toward the kitchen. “You hungry?” Steve asks. “I can order in, if you want.”

“No.” Bucky straightens his shoulders, resigning himself to what he has to do now. “I, uh, I’ve got something I gotta take care of.”

“Oh. Y-Yeah, of course. I get it.”

Steve’s attempt at sounding nonchalant tugs at something inside Bucky’s chest.

“Can I come over tomorrow? After work?”

“I’d like that,” Steve replies after a beat. “Just hold on a sec.”

He doesn’t wait for Bucky to agree, just heads off for his bedroom. Bucky can hear the jangling of keys and some rifling coming from the other room, and his brows draw together in confusion.

Finally, Steve returns, and heads immediately for Bucky. He appears to be holding something in his hand, but Bucky can’t make out what it is.

“Let yourself in when you get here,” he says, pressing something into Bucky’s palm. Steve won’t meet his gaze, instead staring fixedly at the carpet.

Staring down at the key, Bucky struggles to speak passed the sudden lump in his throat. Rather than force out words that would just be inadequate anyway, Bucky leans in to press a soft kiss to Steve’s lips.

“I’ll see ya later.” He only hesitates for a second before adding, “Love you.”

Then, feeling more vulnerable than he liked to admit, Bucky hurries out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just feel like I should mention that I have no personal experience with PTSD. Any mistakes in how it's depicted are totally my own.


	24. Chapter 24

A soft knock at his office door has Phil Coulson looking up from the paperwork he’s filling out. You’d think now that the world had entered the technological age, all that would be ancient history. But nope. Phil still finds himself spending countless hours on the stuff.

So the interruption comes as a relief. The feeling intensifies when he sees who it is.

“Barnes,” he greets, hoping that his surprise isn’t obvious.

“Hey. Is, uh… Is this a good time?” The other man’s eyes are on the stacks of paper in front of Phil, and he’s tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. Phil notices that he’s pulling the material to cover as much of his prosthetic as possible.

“Sure. You’re actually saving me from this bullshit.”

Clearing his desk by simply shoving the paperwork into a drawer, Phil leans back in his chair while Barnes takes a seat in front of him. His fingers are still worrying at his shirt sleeve.

“What can I do for you, Barnes?” Phil asks after a moment of awkward silence.

“I’m… I’m not really sure how to do this.”

Phil takes in the lines of strain at the corners of Barnes’ mouth and the dark circles under his eyes. He looks like shit.

“You been having trouble sleeping?” Phil asks quietly.

“This--It... It came outta nowhere. I mean, I was fine. I was dealin’. And then it just…” Barnes slumps in his seat, covers his face with his hands. The metal of his arm glints in the light. “I could’ve hurt Steve.”

“And Steve is…?”

“My boyfriend,” Bucky mumbles. “We-we were in b-bed. I had a nightmare.” His voice trembles slightly, and Phil winces.

_Poor kid._

Taking a moment to respond, Phil wonders how best to approach this. He’s a counselor, but this might be beyond his expertise.

“Okay, this is probably an obvious question, but what d’you wanna do?” Barnes looks at him questioningly, so he elaborates, “Why’d you come here? Is it just to vent, or are you looking for more… long term assistance?”

Barnes lets out a long, slow breath. His body is beginning to relax, and Phil hopes this is a good sign. Maybe, after months of insisting that he could cope by himself, Barnes is going to admit that he needs help.

“I wanna get better. Not just for my kids, or for Steve… But for me. I wanna be… safe. In my own head.” Barnes’ fingers have stilled on his sleeve, and he looks up to meet Phil’s gaze. There’s no uncertainty in his expression.

“We should get started then.”

The answering nod comes immediately. Phil feels a flash of optimism at that, but he keeps his expression carefully neutral as the meeting progresses. They make appointments, and he explains to Barnes the different types of therapy available. Phil tells Barnes a little about the therapists they have working at the VA, and who he thinks might be the best fit. The whole time, Barnes listens attentively.

By the time Barnes leaves, almost an hour has passed. There appears to be a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there when he’d come in. Pausing at the doorway, Barnes turns to look back at him.

“Hey, Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I, uh--” Barnes runs a hand through his hair self-consciously. “I appreciate it.”

“Just make sure you show up to your appointments,” Phil tells him. “Then we’ll call it even.”

And as Phil watches Barnes walk away, he lets out a tired sigh. Hopefully the other man had meant what he said, and will actually follow through with his treatment.

Leaving it up to the individual to take charge of their lives is Phil’s least favourite part of this job.

Well, that and the paperwork.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, and Steve is exhausted. It was weird how quickly he’d gotten used to having Bucky beside him in bed; now that he isn’t there, Steve is struggling to fall asleep. He feels like a goddamn zombie, so much so that it takes him a beat too long to realise that someone’s calling his name.

“Mr Rogers! Mr Rogers!”

_Shit._

Jostled by hurrying students, Steve fights to turn himself around to locate the source of the sound. His eyes settle on the slight figure of Wanda Barnes. There’s a determined set to her jaw, one that reminds him of Bucky. It makes something in Steve’s chest catch.

Waiting for the little girl to catch up to him, Steve moves a little to the side so as not to get trampled by the kids rushing home.

“Hey, Wanda. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you,” she says seriously.

“Uh, sure. Is everything okay?”

Wanda stares up into his face for a long moment before saying abruptly, “Did you break up with my dad?”

_Okay, I was not expecting that._

He searches desperately for an age appropriate reply while trying not to cringe in embarrassment. But before he can come up with anything, Wanda is scowling up at him, expression fierce.

“Because you’re a real jerk if you did. My dad’s a _hero_ , and just because he’s having problems right now doesn’t mean--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Steve holds up his hands to stop the angry tide of words, a fond smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Wanda, slow down, okay?”

That earns him a mutinous look, but she folds her arms tightly across her chest and waits for him to say something.

“Your dad and I are fine--”

“Then why’s he been comin’ home all sad?” Wanda demands.

Steve doesn’t know what to say. Taking a deep breath, Steve gets down on his haunches so that he’s at eye level with the little girl.

“He’s got a lot going on. And you know that some days are gonna be harder than others,” Steve says, words stilted, and God, that sounds so inadequate. Like Wanda needs him to tell her that.

“I’m sorry,” he continues softly. “I don’t want him to be sad either.”

“Can’t you do something?” There’s no anger in her now, thin shoulders sagging as she looks plaintively at Steve.

Once again, he doesn’t know what to tell her. Steve goes home feeling useless.

_God, I’m tired._

Dropping his bag onto the floor as soon as he steps into the house, Steve heads immediately for the couch. He pauses only long enough to check that he’s not going to land on Felicia before dropping down onto the cushions face first.

It’s tempting to rest his eyes, just for a few minutes. He must drift off, because a while later, he feels a strange tickling sensation at his hip. Steve opens his eyes, only to yelp at the sight of Felicia’s bright eyes only inches away from his face in the dark.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans, jerking away from her.

Disoriented, Steve looks around blurrily. Hours must’ve passed since he’d gotten home because now, light is filtering in from outside, faintly outlining the furniture inside the apartment.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit,_ shit.

He fumbles for his cellphone, only for the goddamn thing to stop ringing as soon as he’s fished it out of his pocket. They’d had dinner plans, and like a jackass, Steve had gone and forgotten all about it.

**Missed call**

_Bucky Barnes_

_19:18_

They’d had dinner plans, and like a jackass, Steve had gone and forgotten all about it. Fingers clumsy, eyes still sticking together, Steve calls Bucky back. He rests his forehead on the armrest, waiting for the other man to answer.

“Steve?” He can hear the concern in Bucky’s voice. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Buck. I…” Releasing a tired sigh, Steve sits up, rubbing a hand over his face roughly. “I fell asleep,” he mumbles.

“Oh.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. Just… gimme a couple minutes, huh? I’ll meet you there.”

“Nah. It’s no big deal. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Buck, don’t go. I-I wanted to talk to you ‘bout how your meeting went.”

Today was the day when Bucky was meant to start working on something called cognitive processing. Steve’s done some reading on the subject, but he’d figured that Bucky would be better able to explain it.

Only now, Bucky sounds too drained to string a sentence together.

“Not much to talk about,” Bucky tells him wearily. “Met the guy, he told me what to expect…” He trails off, and Steve suddenly aches to hold him. “Look, I’m beat. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a response, Bucky hangs up.

Steve stares at his cell phone for a long time afterwards. He goes to bed without even bothering to shower.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of the front door opening has Natasha looking up sharply from where she’s sitting on the couch. She’s got sheafs of paper before her on the coffee table, and a half full glass of wine set a careful distance away.

She hears the front door click shut, and then nothing.

Frowning, Nat gets to her feet. Padding into the entryway, her heart lurches when she sees a dark figure leaned up against the door. She reaches out to turn on the light.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

James looks terrible. His face is wan, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. But it’s the misery etched into his expression that grabs Natasha’s attention; she’s never seen him like this.

Rather than answer, he simply shrugs. Then, as though his legs can’t hold him any longer, James slides down to sit on the floor.

Heart hurting, Natasha moves to sit beside him. She makes sure not to touch him. For long minutes, neither of them says anything.

“Wish I knew… how to make it stop,” James whispers. “All the…” He waves his flesh hand at his head. “The noise. Some days, it-it’s fine. I can fu-function.” The words are bitten out, and Natasha can sense his frustration with his halting speech.

It’s tempting to offer him platitudes: _it’ll be alright; you can do it; it’ll be better tomorrow._

She can’t get the words passed her throat.

So, rather than lie, or offer empty words of comfort, Natasha reaches out to take hold of James’ hand. She squeezes his fingers gently.

They sit together for a long while; it’s cold.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Clint appears. He’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, his hair sticking out in all directions. And in his hands, he’s carrying a blanket.

Natasha feels a sudden surge of affection.

“Only brought one blanket,” Clint mutters with a bemused frown. He starts back for the stairs, but pauses. Looking between where she and James are sitting and back to the stairs, Clint seems torn.

“You wanna come sit with us?” she asks softly. Beside her, James makes a soft sound of agreement.

“Still only got one,” he mumbles, waving the blanket in emphasis.

Smiling, Natasha pats the spot next to her.

“We can share.”

God bless Clint. Completely unperturbed by the prospect of squashing together in front of the door with her and her ex, he just nods, and drops down beside her. Leaning forward, he passes one corner of the blanket over to James, and scoots closer to her.

And, even with Natasha being as worried as she is about James, she feels a surge of contentment.

The platitude comes before she can stop it, but the words don’t piss her off as they usually would.

_Long as they’re together, they’ll be okay._

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Days pass, and exhaustion clings to  Bucky like cobwebs. Sleep hasn’t been coming easy, food has lost its appeal, and he’s struggling to remember the most basic things.

Worst of all, he can feel himself pulling away from Natasha and Clint, from Steve, from his kids.

It’s hard. He can feel their concern, but it sort of moves passed him. Almost like the wind passing through a chainlink fence; nothing seems to stick.

“... wanna do tonight?”

Bucky looks up blankly, finding Steve watching him. It takes him a few seconds to register that Steve had asked a question.

Whatever Steve sees on Bucky’s face has him sighing quietly.

“Or we could just stay in,” he suggests. Walking over to where Bucky’s seated on the couch, where Felicia has uncharacteristically chosen to sprawl across his lap, Steve gently scratches at Bucky’s scalp. It feels nice. Bucky closes his eyes, too weary to speak.

“Whatever you want,” he murmurs after a few seconds.

The touch stops. Soft lips press to his forehead, and the Steve’s moving away. Bucky heard his quiet voice on the phone, ordering…Chinese, Bucky thinks.

It's too much effort to tell Steve that he isn't hungry.

Flesh hand moving absently over Felicia’s fur, Bucky stares blankly at the TV. A pretty news anchor is looking into the camera, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the edges of her mouth as she gives them details on the baby tiger that'd been born at the local zoo. At the bottom of the screen, the more serious headlines roll by in a continuous loop.

Every now and then, words will jump out at him: _17 dead… suicide bomber… condemned the violence… US troops on the ground…_

He flinches when the screen suddenly goes black. Jerking around, he sees Steve sitting beside him; their knees are inches apart. Right now, it feels like miles.

“So, I was thinkin’,” Steve begins, acting like nothing had happened. “Maybe we can go to bed early tonight. I bought these--”

“We talked about this,” he mumbles.

“Buck, c’mon. It’ll be fine. I’ll even crash on the couch if it’ll make you feel better.”  
“Not kickin’ you outta your bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out if I’m offering,” Steve argues. When Bucky doesn’t reply, Steve inches closer to him. “Please, Buck. Lemme take care of you a little, huh?”

Anything he might have said gets stuck in his throat. He hates this, he hates this _so fucking much_. It’s not Steve’s job to take care of him; it’s not Steve’s job to tiptoe around Bucky like he’s a fucking bomb that’s about to go off.

“‘M sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. Okay?” Steve gives him a little shake. “End of the line, remember?”

“Could do better.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and Bucky can _feel_ his impatience. Some perverse corner of his mind is glad. But then Steve is touching him again, gentle fingers moving across his cheekbone.

“Tough shit. I want _you_. Just you. Now, get your ass up. We ain’t got all night.” Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead, taking the sting out of his words.

Forcing his lips up into some semblance of a smile, Bucky forces himself to his feet. It’s worth the effort when he sees the relief in Steve’s eyes.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he says softly. Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve to reply, just shuffles over to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. It’s a relief to be out from under the weight of Steve’s worried stare. Rubbing a hand roughly over his face, Bucky begins to strip.


	25. Chapter 25

The apartment is quiet, the only real sound coming from the shower. Steve rakes his fingers through his hair, worry gnawing at him persistently. Weeks have passed since Bucky’s started therapy, and things just seem to be getting worse. 

A moment later, the water shuts off. Shaking himself out of his melancholy, Steve moves over to the nightstand to grab the bottle of massage oil. He’d bought the stuff in the hopes of finding creative uses for it, but if this helps make Bucky feel just a fraction better, Steve doesn’t mind the change of plans. 

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom, he’s got a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and his wet hair clings to his shoulders. 

He looks exhausted.

“On the bed,” Steve tells him softly.

Bucky doesn’t move. 

“I know we haven’t… not for a while,” he begins awkwardly.

“What? Buck, no, that’s not--” Steve breaks off, feeling heat rising across his skin. Damn it, this isn’t something he wants to discuss right this second, especially when they’ve got more important things to worry about. But from the look on Bucky’s face, this is important to  _ him _ . 

If Bucky’s looking for reassurance, Steve would move heaven and earth to give it to him.

“That wasn’t what I was thinkin’ ‘bout right now,” Steve says finally. “Mostly I wanted to make you feel good in a… non-sexy way.”

For the first time since Bucky had arrived, his smile reaches his eyes. 

“Dunno what I did to deserve you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a real prince,” Steve scoffs. “C’mon, on the bed.”

Bucky does as he’s told. Tired as he is, Steve still can’t help but admire the way the muscles in Bucky’s shoulders flex, the metal of his left arm gleaming in the dim light. He knows how self-conscious Bucky is about it, the way he flinches away from anyone seeing his scars.

To Steve, those marks just make Bucky more beautiful. 

He moves over to the nightstand, and rifles through the contents for the massage oil. Bucky’s eyes are open, but Steve gets the feeling that he's lost in his own thoughts. Kneeling on the bed, Steve crawls along so that he can straddle Bucky’s waist. 

“Too heavy?” Steve asks, settling his weight just below Bucky’s lower back.   

When an incredulous scoff is his only answer, Steve uncaps the massage oil, and squirts a liberal amount into his palm. He takes a moment to warm the cool oil, rubbing his hands together before he gets to work. 

Starting between Bucky’s shoulder blades, Steve feels a surge of warmth in his chest when a relieved groan tears itself from Bucky’s throat. Smooth skin beneath his right hand, raised scars and metal beneath his left, there's pleasure in touching Bucky like this for him too. There's nothing sexual about this, but the intimacy is just as intense as it’d be if they were naked together. 

“I like this,” Steve murmurs after a few minutes. 

“Good. Gonna need you to do it more often.” Bucky’s words come out slightly slurred, and his body is loose and relaxed under Steve’s hands. 

“Any time, Buck.”

Soon, the only sound filling the room is Bucky’s deep, even breathing. It’s a relief to see him like this, the lines of strain between his eyebrows and around his mouth having eased somewhat.

He waits until he’s sure Bucky’s fallen asleep before he moves. Easing his weight off of the other man, Steve pads to the corner of the room to sink down onto the floor. His own shoulders are tense now as the unfairness of it all presses down on him. 

Bucky deserves so much better than this. Bad enough that he’d given his  _ fucking arm _ in service to his country, but for it to prey on his mind too? 

_ It’s just not fair. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“When’s the last time you saw your team?”

“I haven’t.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

Jaw clenching, Bucky slumps down further in his seat. The worn material covering the couch is soft beneath Bucky’s fingers, and his stare is fixed on a hole in carpet. He doesn’t answer.

But unlike normal fucking people, shrinks don’t mind long, uncomfortable silences. 

Skin crawling, frustration clawing at him, Bucky glares at the man opposite him. 

“What?” he barks.

The guy, Riley, gives him a bland smile. 

_ Fucker.  _

“I haven't gone to see ‘em ‘cause I fucked up,” Bucky spits. “It was my job to keep ‘em safe. And look where it got us. Dum Dum’s dead, Gabe got half his fuckin’ face blown off--”

“You lost your arm,” Riley points out quietly. 

That brings him up short. It shouldn't because of course, he knows that. Hard not to with that hunk of fucking metal attached to his shoulder. But… he thinks he could mane deal with that, if the others had been okay. 

Bucky goes back to staring at the carpet. 

“We've touched on something I'd like to talk about in more detail,” Riley begins after allowing the silence to stretch for a moment. 

“Rather not,” Bucky mutters. Still, he looks up at Riley expectantly, waiting for whatever the hell it is the guy thinks needs further dissection. 

Tapping his pencil on the arm of his seat, Riley stares at Bucky intently. It's disconcerting. Bucky tries not to fidget. 

“You said it was your job to keep them safe. Why is that?” 

“Seriously?”

Riley cocks his head thoughtfully, a gesture that Bucky’s started to fucking  _ hate _ . 

“By the sounds of it, there wasn't anything you could've done to stop what happened.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees so he can meet Bucky’s gaze. “But you blame yourself for it.”

“I could've--I--I--” Bucky breaks off, roughly shoving his hair out of his face, and then swearing loudly when the strands get caught in the slate of his left arm. 

_ Gonna fuckin’ hack it off soon as I get home.  _

He's not sure if he's talking about his arm or his hair at this point. And all the while, he's aware that Riley is watching him. 

“Look, Barnes, this is rough. I know it is. And nobody expects you to just  _ get over it.  _ What happened over there is somethin’ you're gonna carry with you for the try of your life.”

Bucky can't look at Riley as he says this. The idea of feeling like this forever is just… He can't think about it. 

“And before you can start to heal,” Riley continues earnestly. “You need to at least entertain the idea that what happened wasn't your fault. Then we can work towards you accepting it.”

“What if they blame me?”

“What if they don’t?”

Somehow, that idea is even more terrifying than anything else that’s run through his head these last few months.

They wrap things up not long after that, Riley giving his hand a firm shake. He says something about patience and making progress, and it all goes right over Bucky’s head. All Bucky can think about is getting the hell out of there.

Moving like his ass is on fire, Bucky leaves the VA without a backward glance.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I present to you, keralan fish curry,” Clint says grandly, setting the serving dish on the kitchen table that night. He’s proud of this little beauty, had spent about an hour making sure it was  _ just right _ . Not that his efforts are being appreciated. 

“What’s in it?” Pietro asks, wrinkling his nose slightly.

“It smells like fish,” Wanda adds, echoing her brother’s unimpressed tone.

“That’s because it  _ is _ fish.” Clint starts dishing up for them both, ignoring their groans. “And some of the oldest living people in the world got that way by eating fish.”

“Figured they did that by not dying,” Pietro mutters.

“God save me from smart ass kids. Wanda, where you goin’?” Clint asks when she pushes away from the table. He turns to watch as Wanda walks over to the fridge.

“Getting ketchup,” she replies firmly.

Clint is making an agonised sound just as Natasha steps into the room.

“Your children are barbarians,” he tells her. 

Lips quirking in a smile, Natasha comes over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“It smells delicious,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

Soothed by Natasha’s response, Clint lets out an even breath. At least someone in this house appreciates his cooking.

Although he’d probably still adore Nat even if she didn’t.

“Where’s Barnes? He coming?”

Clint regrets the question as soon as it passes his lips. The spark fades from Natasha’s eyes, and she presses her lips together.

“Not sure,” she answers quietly.

“Well, we’ll just save something for him,” Clint says, forcing cheer. Natasha turns away from him, allowing her hair to fall into her face to hide her expression. 

He hates that.

They talk about everything during dinner; Wanda chatters about her creative writing piece being the best in her class, and Pietro crows about joining the track team. Clint regales them with the latest tale of Tony and Pepper’s courtship--Tony had taken it into his head to recite lines from Cyrano during a staff meeting--and Natasha has the kids giggling when she does an impersonation of the judge she’d had to deal with today.

No one mentions Bucky.

Wanda and Pietro head off to bed, and Bucky still isn’t home. Neither of them ask any questions, but Clint can see the dejected slump to their shoulders. 

It pisses him off. 

“You okay?” Nat asks once they’re alone in the kitchen.

“Fine,” he answers tightly. He might be scrubbing a little aggressively at the ketchup on Wanda’s plate, but that’s his own business. Clint doesn’t look up when he feels Natasha’s arms wind around his waist, her head resting between his shoulder blades.

“Sometimes it’s hard not to get mad at him.”

Releasing a long breath, Clint turns to face her. 

“He’s going through some stuff. I get it. But--” And here Clint can’t help but grit his teeth in frustration. “But sometimes I wish he’d call. Tell ‘em he’s okay.”

Natasha pulls back to say something, but is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Heavy boots thud across the floor before Bucky appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

“I missed dinner?” he asks, expression crestfallen. Bucky doesn’t even wait for them to answer, just bolts toward the stairs.

“Don’t keep them up too late,” Natasha calls after him.

There’s no answer as Bucky hurries up the stairs. Clint and Natasha exchange an exasperated look.

“And then he goes and does shit like this,” Clint mutters. “You couldn’t have gotten an ex who was just a little predictable?”

Nat rolls her eyes. 

“You want help finishing up with these?” she asks, nudging at him gently with her shoulder. 

“Might as well,” Clint replies with an exaggerated sigh. He grins when Nat elbows him less gently in the ribs. 

They spend the next twenty minutes like that, bumping into each other, and flicking water in the other’s face. It isn’t long before the floor beneath their feet is wet.

Funny enough, Clint doesn’t really mind.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Shit, shit, shit. _

_ I am such a fucking asshole. _

After his meeting at the VA, Bucky had walked. He’d walked until his feet had ached, and then he’d kept going. Riley’s words had followed him wherever he went. 

The whole time since he’s been home, Bucky had been picturing his teammates, their censure and judgement. But what if that wasn’t it? What if there’d just been understanding?

Rather than being reassured by that, Bucky had had a hard time not throwing up. 

For a long while, it hadn’t even occurred to him to check the time. Even longer to go home. But now he’s here. 

And the kids are already in bed.

_ You gotta do better. _

Standing outside Wanda’s room, Bucky hesitates. The hallway light is still on, even though Wanda insists she doesn’t need it; she has nightmares sometimes, bad ones. Nat says they come less often now that Bucky’s back home.

“Daddy?”

He sees a slender silhouette sitting up in bed, and clears his throat guiltily. 

“Thought you were supposed to be asleep,” Bucky points out, edging into her room. The bedroom lamp is abruptly switched on, making him blink rapidly. Wanda’s hair is still neatly braided, so he can’t have missed bedtime by much.

“And you were supposed to come home for dinner,” she tells him softly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I was.” Moving closer, Bucky moves to sit on the edge of her bed. Automatically, he reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Why weren’t you?” she asks. “Were you with Ste--Mr Rogers?” Wanda frowns, distracted for a second. “What am I supposed to call him?”

“Steve is good, just not at school, I think.”

“Oh.” She nods at that before giving him an expectant look. “Where were you?” she prompts.

“I went for a walk after… after my meeting.” 

She watches him for a moment, and then pushes back the covers. Crawling over on her knees, she wraps her skinny arms around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky has to swallow back a lump in his throat. 

Finally, after pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, Wanda sits back. 

“You're gonna get better,” she says confidently. “You'll see.”

It's hard not to break down at that. Tucking her in a few minutes later, Bucky heads to check in on Pietro; kid’s out like a light. He feels disappointment dart through him, but forces it down. It’s his own damn fault for getting home so late. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” he whispers. Crouching down beside the bed, Bucky gently runs his flesh hand over the wild tuft of blond hair sticking out from under the covers. “I’m gonna do better. I promise.”

A soft little sigh is all he gets in answer.

He makes it to his own bed, and flops down onto the mattress tiredly. Shifting around, Bucky pulls his cellphone out of his back pocket. It’s still early enough for him to make this call.

_ You can do this. _

Taking a deep breath, Bucky goes through his list of contacts and, before he can back out, hits dial.

The call seems to take forever to go through. While Bucky waits, he does his best to ignore all the half-assed excuses his brain is trying to offer up for why he should hang up. He really doesn’t wanna do this.

_ Tough shit. _

Just when Bucky thinks that he’s going to get voicemail, a deep, familiar voice answers.

“Barnes?”

“Hey, man,” Bucky manages after a few seconds. “How’ve you been?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, but I suck. This took way, way, WAY too long to put up. I'm so sorry. I was going through a phase of writing a lot, hating it all, and then deleting it. So hopefully you'll enjoy what survived my many purges.
> 
> Also, as a side note: 'chaji' means 'dick' in Korean. That is, if my extensive googling is to be believed. If it's wrong, I'm so sorry.

_ Feels just like old times.  _

Sam is splattered with paint and his back is aching, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. Standing beside him, his own face flecked with pale blue splotches, is Steve. They’d both been assigned the task of repainting Peggy’s apartment while she supervised.  

That’s basically code for Peggy bossing them around. 

“Alright, soon as you finish up here, you can move on to--” 

“The kitchen for a lunch break?” Sam suggests, wiping dramatically at his brow. All he ends up doing is smearing the paint even further. 

“Oh, dear, love. Are you tired?” Peggy asks in mock sympathy. 

“How ‘bout a compromise,” Steve suggests. “We keep goin’ in here, and you could maybe grab some takeout?”

“Fair enough,” Peggy says after a moment of thought. “But I'll take over with the paint, and you can get the food.”

It's easy to understand where Peg’s coming from. Steve’s been inhaling paint fumes for the better part of two hours, and the last thing they need is for his lungs to play up. But, true to form, Steve has to argue. Even the vaguest suggestion of weakness on his part gets Steve’s back up. 

“I can handle painting a wall,” he says with a stubborn jut to his jaw. 

Peggy gives him a quizzical look. 

“Yes, I know,” she says slowly. “But I'd quite like to tell people that I had a hand in redecorating my apartment. Besides, the owner at the Korean restaurant likes you better. Sam hasn't been welcome there since he ordered  _ chaji  _ rather than  _ kimchi _ .”

“How was I supposed to know?” Sam protests. 

“The uncontrollable laughter might've given you a hint,” Peggy says with a smirk. “And I'm still not entirely sure how you mixed the two up. They don't even sound alike.”

“I was distracted when I was placing the order.”

“Too busy thinking of  _ chaji _ ?” Steve suggests slyly. Peggy giggles. 

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Sam groans. “I hate you both.”

But their ribbing has the desired effect: Steve’s suitably mollified, and leaves the apartment about five minutes later after a heated argument over who was buying. Tenacious little bastard won that round.

Once Steve has left, Sam and Peggy get back to painting. They work in companionable silence for few minutes, working their way from opposite ends of the room towards each other. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Peggy says when they’re standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Course,” he replies. “You know you can ask me anything.”

And it’s the truth. He doesn’t need the pleased smile Peggy gives him, or the way she gently bumps her shoulder against his. 

The moment stretches, their gazes meeting and holding for just a fraction too long. Sam feels the now familiar spark of attraction; he aches deep in his bones to close the slight difference between them, to just kiss Peg the way he’d been thinking of doing for years.

Only, that’s not what Peggy wants.

Breaking the moment, Sam reaches over and dabs the paint brush across her nose; a startled laugh escapes Peggy as she jerks back. 

“Oh, now you’re in trouble,” Peggy tells him, squinting adorably at her nose, where there’s a small blob of pale blue paint. She swipes out with her own brush, leaving a long streak of paint across the front of Sam’s dark t-shirt.

_ It is  _ so _ on. _

By the time Steve makes it back to the apartment, food in hand, both Peggy and Sam are breathless and covered in paint. Steve just raises one expressive eyebrow.

“I don’t even wanna know.”

And so, with one last bemused look between the two of them, Steve sets to dishing up. Beside him, Peggy can’t quite manage to muffle a snort of inelegant laughter. Stepping passed Sam, she makes her way over to set the kitchen table.

Still, despite the puzzled glances Steve sends their way when he think they’re not looking, it’s been a good day.

Sneaking a look over at Peggy, whose nose is still sporting a splotch of paint, Sam might even go so far as to say it’s been great.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

There’s a beat of prickly silence.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

More silence. 

Guilt nibbles at Bucky despite his best efforts to ignore it. He’s on edge after his phone call to Jones, irritable and quick to snap. 

_ Steve doesn’t deserve this. _

Drawing in a deep breath, Bucky moves over to where Steve is sitting. They’re waiting for Jones and Morita in a quiet coffee shop, the only customers at this time of the day. Which is lucky, considering the way he’s been pacing back and forth like a crazy person. He’d caught the manager of the place giving him sideways looks a couple of times.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

A gentle touch to his elbow that makes him flinch. Steve is gazing at him with far too much understanding in his expression, and it makes Bucky squirm uncomfortably in his seat.

“I can go. If you want,” Steve offers softly.

The only thing worse than having Steve here would be to have him leave.

“No. No, please, I--” He cuts off abruptly, clenching his teeth in frustration. “ _ Fuck.”  _

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve takes his hand, thumb rubbing lightly across Bucky’s wrist. “I’ll stay as long as you want. An’ if you need privacy with the guys, I’ll go. Just say the word.”

Time marches on, and they just wait. Bucky’s given up on pacing; instead, he sits quietly with Steve, focusing on the soothing touches to his hand. 

It’s 17:21. Jones and Morita are late. 

_ Maybe they’re not coming. _

His throat tightens at the idea. Back when they’d spoken on the phone, Jones had sounded okay, maybe even kinda happy to hear from him. But what the fuck does Bucky know? He’s been out of contact for months.

Finally, he reaches the point where he can’t do it anymore. People have been filtering into the coffee shop, and each time the little bell above the door chimes, Bucky’s whipping around to see if it’s them. He can’t sit still for another second.

“We should go,” he says, getting up from his seat.

“Buck--”

“This was a bad idea--”

“ _ Bucky. _ ”

“What?” he demands, voice gone sharp again. But Steve doesn’t seem to notice; his gaze is fixed on the entrance to the coffee shop. Bucky looks over his shoulder, and his stomach immediately drops.

Standing there is Gabe Jones, immediately recognisable with the way he stands head and shoulders above everyone else. Beside him is Jim Morita, his hand clenched around a dark polished cane.

For a long moment, Bucky can’t move; he can barely breathe. He’s distantly aware of Steve’s hand coming to rest gently on his lower back. The touch is grounding. As soon as Jim and Gabe make eye contact, they’re heading over. Bucky can’t decide if he wants to move closer or back away. It doesn’t matter though; it’s like his feet are made out of concrete.

“Good to see you, man,” Jones says once they’re close enough. His voice is that same familiar deep rumble, even though his features aren’t what Bucky remembers. The explosion had done a number on the right side of his face, and Bucky can see people sneaking sympathetic looks in Gabe’s direction.

Moving on autopilot, Bucky extends his hand; Jones ignores it. Instead, he pulls Bucky into a tight hug, thumping him on the back. Morita does the same, and Bucky notices the way he’s limping.

_ Jesus Christ. _

It’s hard to look at them.

“Hi,” Steve says from beside him, voice friendly. “I’m Steve.”

While introductions are made, Bucky gets a few seconds to catch his breath.

_ You can do this. This was your idea. _

Taking a deep breath, he forces a shaky smile.

“D’you guys want somethin’ to drink? I can get--” Bucky casts his eyes around the room, hoping to catch the attention of the waitress. 

“No, we’re-we’re okay,” Jim says after sharing a brief look with Gabe. 

“Oh. Okay.”

“Let’s sit,” Steve suggests, his voice a little higher than usual. He makes sure he’s sitting on the edge, in the seat where it would be easiest for him to slip away. 

Bucky feels a bite of panic at the idea of Steve leaving him here. It’s followed up by a dull throb of sadness; he’d once trusted these men with his life. 

“How’ve you been?” Gabe asks eventually.

They seize on the topic. Bucky tells Jim and Gabe about his kids--even whips out friggin’ pictures--and about the stuff he’s doing at community college. Gabe’s joined some big name accounting firm, although apparently they avoid bringing him in to meet new clients. The three men sitting around the table scowl at that, but Gabe appears unphased. 

“Rather not meet with the yuppies ‘til I have to,” he says with a shrug.

“Still a dick move,” Steve mutters. It’s one of the few times he’s spoken, and Gabe gives him a wide grin in reply. 

“I,uh… I got a job offer at the New York Academy of Art,” Jim tells them after a moment, speaking to his hands. “They’re thinking of adding metal sculpting to their curriculum.”

“That’s awesome.” Bucky reaches out to shake Jim’s shoulder a little. “They don’t take just any asshole, right?” He turns to share a look with Steve, only to find Steve glaring at him a little.

“Your buddy’s an artist? Really, Barnes?” Steve then turns to Jim, and begins peppering him with questions about his work; Jim visibly brightens when he talks about his current project, some motorcycle sculpture an old lady had commissioned for her husband.

Gabe’s eyebrows are venturing toward his hairline.

“Gonna need a goddamn crowbar to get your boyfriend back,” Gabe mutters with a smirk.

For a moment, all they do is grin at each other. There’s a lightness in Bucky’s chest that he hasn’t felt in a long time. It gives him the courage to say what he’d been meaning to say for months now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“We missed you,” Gabe says after a moment. He swallows hard, looking down at the table. “It was… rough… after the funeral. Dugan’s old lady…”

“Yeah. I... I'll do better from now. No more bullshit.”

“Glad to hear it, man.” They exchange s long look, and Bucky feels his throat grow tight. He’d needed this. And judging by the expression on Gabe’s face, he'd needed it too. 

They part ways about an hour later, with Bucky having to practically pull Steve and Jim apart. The pair had been talking like old friends, and had already made plans to meet up at some point for Steve to check out Jim’s work. 

“Don’t be a stranger now,” Jim says, pinning Bucky with a look. Bucky nods his understanding before moving in for a hug, clapping Jim on the shoulder. 

Finally, they part ways, and Bucky can’t help looking over his shoulder every few steps. 

Rounding the corner, Bucky catches sight of Steve smiling at him fondly. He ducks his head, feeling a little embarrassed.

“What?” he mumbles.

“It’s good to see you happy, is all.” He wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist as they make their way home. Bucky doesn’t answer, but he does use their companionable silence to think about it. And he realises that Steve is right.

He's happier than he can ever remember being before.

They’re about a block away from Steve’s apartment when Bucky comes to an abrupt halt. Steve looks at him questioningly, but before he can say anything, Bucky is ducking down to press a quick, fervent kiss to his lips.

“Not that I mind,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s mouth as he pulls away, “but, uh… what was that for?”

“Can’t I kiss you?”

Steve’s smile makes his knees weak. He touches Bucky’s chin, fingers rubbing lightly at his stubble.

“You’re weird,” Steve tells him. Going up on his tiptoes, he kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How you feelin’?”

“Good. Really good. Better than I thought I would.”

The relief in Bucky’s voice is palpable, and Steve feels a corresponding easing in his shoulders. His head is resting on Bucky’s chest, the TV playing quietly in the background.

It’s nice. Peaceful.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, swatting at Bucky’s bicep half-heartedly. “I’m bein’ serious.”

Bucky lets out a contented sigh, and wraps his arms around Steve more tightly, drawing him closer. Neither of them speaks for a moment. He can feel Bucky’s fingers ghosting over his spine; Steve relaxes further at the touch, going boneless against Bucky’s side.

“So…?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’ve been thinking,” Bucky prompts.

“Oh, right.” Steve shift around on the couch, moving so that he can keep his eyes on Bucky’s expression. He’s a little nervous now, but he pushes on.  “D’you… D’you wanna move in? With me?”

There’s a long pause, and Steve feels his stomach drop. 

_ Shit. Shit, shit, shit. _

“Unless it’s too soon, ‘cause I--”

“Yes.”

“--totally get--” Steve shuts his mouth with an audible clack. “What?”

“Dope,” Bucky says fondly. “I’ll move in.” And now he looks nervous. “I mean, if it’s really what you want.”

Steve laughs, giddy, and crawls into Bucky’s lap. But then something occurs to him.

“But what about the kids?”

“I think they’re kinda expecting it,” Bucky replies with a shrug. “I mean, I spend most nights here anyway. It’ll be nice to make it...”

“Official?” Steve suggests.

“Sounds dumb, huh? Not like we weren’t official before.”   


“Yeah, but now we get to be  _ domestic _ .” The idea makes him smile so hard his face hurts.

“Does that mean I can get rid of this couch?” Bucky asks deadpan.    

“What’s wrong with the couch?”

Bucky scoffs, but there’s a playful light in his eyes.

“Where do I even start?”

And as Bucky starts listing the things wrong with Steve’s worn old couch--starting with a spring that was poking him in the ass--Steve feels like everything has fallen into place. 

_ We’re gonna be okay. _


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took stupidly long to write, especially considering how short it is. I hope you guys all enjoy it!

“This was a great idea.”

“Course it was. It was mine.”

“Modest as ever,” Bucky mutters, flashing a grin at Steve in the dark. Then, because he can, he scoots over with the intention of pressing a chaste kiss to Steve’s lips. But before he can get close enough, an excitable voice pipes up.

“We should get flashlights an’ tell ghost stories.”

“No, we shouldn’t, dummy.”

“You’re a dummy!”

“No, you’re--”

“Both supposed to be sleep,” Bucky cuts in, exasperated.

Pietro and Wanda both fall silent at the reminder, although he does hear Wanda mutter, “ _You’re the dummy_ ,” after a few seconds. From beside him, Steve is doing a shitty job of trying to muffle his laughter.

It’s the first weekend that the kids are sleeping over at Steve’s--no, _their_ \--apartment, and they’d decided to put the couch cushions on the floor for them all to sleep on. The kids had been excited and, if Bucky was honest, so was he.

But he’d made the rookie mistake of actually expecting the kids to _sleep_.

_Wait for it._

“D’you think we could bake cookies in the morning, Mr Rogers?” Wanda asks, sounding way too awake.

“Call me, Steve, sweetie. And sure. We can do whatever you want.”

“C’mon, Rogers, don’t tell ‘em that,” Bucky complains. “Who knows what they’ll have you doin’ next.”

“Maybe we can get a dog,” Pietro’s voice enthuses from the darkness.

Bucky wishes that there was enough light in the room for Steve to see the _I-told-you-so_ look that Bucky’s aiming in his direction. Instead, he settles for poking Steve in the ribs.

“We’ll have to run that by Felicia,” Steve answers before he retaliates with a sharp elbow. “She’s not a big fan of… well, much of anybody.”

“Where is she?” Wanda asks curiously. Bucky can hear her shifting around, no doubt hoping to spot bright yellow eyes staring back at her.

“Damn cat’s probably waitin’ ‘til we’re asleep so she can eat our faces,” Bucky says, so only Steve can hear him.

“What’s the matter, Barnes? ‘Fraid of a little pussy?” Steve whispers back.

By the time he and Steve have stopped laughing, the living room is filled with what can only be described as a judgemental silence.

“You guys are so weird,” Pietro mutters. A little noise of agreement from Wanda, and then silence. Eventually, the kids’ breathing evens out. It’s a calming sound, and Bucky feels himself relaxing further into the threadbare cushion behind his head.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hmmm?”

Scooting closer to his boyfriend, Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, and rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“Thanks. For doing this.”

A soft sigh, and Steve wriggles around so that they’re facing each other. Bucky feels a soft touch across his cheekbone.

“They’re good kids. I like ‘em.” Steve’s slender fingers ghost across his skin, and he tweaks Bucky’s earlobe as he adds, “Their dad ain’t half bad, either.”

“Punk,” Bucky mutters.

“Jerk.”

“Seriously, though, I know it’s a lot to deal with, ‘specially when they’re not your--”

“Stop.” Steve’s hand comes up to cover his mouth. “They’re… they’re kinda my kids too, now. Y’know? So… I-I-I want them here.”

Emotion wells up inside Bucky’s chest. Not trusting his voice to hold steady, he presses a kiss to Steve’s palm. He wishes there was some way he could reciprocate.

“I’ll be nicer to the cat,” he says finally.

They laugh themselves to sleep, muffling the sound against each other’s skin. Bucky’s last thought before he drifts off is that this is as good as it gets.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Giggles. That's the first thing Steve hears upon waking up. It's a nice sound, but unfamiliar. The next thing to enter Steve’s awareness is that he's really warm, pressed up against a hard body, with strong arms wrapped around him.

He can't think of a single good reason to so much as twitch.

“Mornin’,” Bucky murmurs. His voice is sleep roughened in a way that sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

_Okay, maybe I can move just a little bit._

Steve sidles up closer to Bucky, pressing his lips to the edge of Bucky’s jaw. It's just as his hands are beginning to wander when Bucky catches his wrist in a gentle grip.

“We got company,” he whispers.

“Huh?”

A loud crash echoes through the apartment before Bucky can explain, and Steve abruptly remembers their sleepover last night.

_Oh. There are children. In my apartment._

The giggles are replaced by urgent whispers. It occurs to Steve that there should probably be some sort of adult supervision going on.

“Mornin’, everyone,” he manages to call out in a raspy voice, alerting the kids to the fact that they were awake.

Dead silence.

“Wanda? Pietro?” Bucky twists around a little, jostling Steve as he tries to get a look at what they were doing.

“Uh, just a minute,” Wanda says, high pitched and squeaky. Then, in a too loud whisper, she adds, “Hurry up!”

“Should we be worried?” Steve asks Bucky. He's still not sure it's enough to warrant getting up.

“Probably.”

Having a sigh, Steve sits up. He could've used another hour or so of sleep, but to have his apartment filled with more than just him and Felicia… It's kinda amazing. The loneliness that used to creep up on him seems so far away now.

Beside him, Bucky’s moving to get on his feet, likely to check on the kids. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in all directions.

Love swells up inside him; it's so much that Steve wonders how the hell his weak heart can hold onto it all. Stopping Bucky with a hand on his arm, Steve reaches up to kiss him, soft and sweet.

“Hi,” he breathes when they separate.

“Hi.”

“Ta da!” Wanda and Pietro emerge from the kitchen at that moment, each bearing a tray of what looks like bacon and eggs.

Nervous fidgeting and shy smiles accompany breakfast, and Steve isn't really sure what to do with the way he's feeling. It's so different from what he'd grown up with; it's more than he ever thought he'd have.  

All these people have wedged themselves inside of him: Peggy and Sam; Wanda, Pietro, Natasha and Clint.

Bucky.

They're his family now.

And it's a wonderful life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... that's a wrap. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, you've all given me life. Also, apologies for the long gaps between chapters. I was terribly inconsistent with my posting, but I'll do better with my next one (yes, there's another one. Tee hee!). So, yes, lot's of thanks. I appreciate you all a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> You can come chat to me at wakemeshakememony.tumblr.com


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